


Winter's End

by amaruuk



Category: The Fugitive (Movies)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 70,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23754850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaruuk/pseuds/amaruuk
Summary: Rebuilding a life is difficult; forming a relationship with the man who hunted him should be impossible. Kimble learns that he can do both--and, even harder, that he can find happiness again.Three people turned at the sound of his approach, and Kimble recognized all three of them. Not Rosetti and Kelly, but rather, Deputy US Marshal Samuel Gerard and two of his assistant deputies, Poole and Newman."Dr. Kimble." There was a note of surprise in Gerard's voice. He took a step forward, hand extended. "How are you, doctor?""Deputy Gerard." Kimble accepted the other man's hand, finding it larger than his own and very powerful. He shook it firmly, hoping the strength of his own grip would conceal the slight tremor in his fingers. "I'm fine, thank you," he said with careful courtesy. The sight of Gerard, lean, tall, simply but perfectly appareled, with eyes as black as the far side of the moon, was quite unnerving. "Is that your handiwork in there?"
Relationships: Samuel Gerard/Richard Kimble
Comments: 22
Kudos: 34





	Winter's End

_Winter_

Perhaps it was the heat of the hand stretching toward his shoulder, the disturbance of air setting off eddies of colliding molecules, or merely the faint but acrid scent of a sleep-starved body that alerted him. Kimble startled awake, lurching upward all at once, shocking a gasp from the small man who bent over him.

_"Walter?"_

"Jesus, Richard! I didn't mean to frighten you."

Kimble sat back on the sofa, legs sprawled wide before him, scrubbing at his face with swollen fingertips. "You didn't," he lied. A long woolen overcoat puddled around his hips; he looked down at it vaguely. Belatedly, he began to remember. "What are you doing here?" _Here_ was the break-room for the United States Marshals Service offices in downtown Chicago, where he had been brought last night—

Everything came back to him in a sickening rush. Confronting Dr. Charles Nichols in the plush Hilton Towers ballroom; their frantic battle on the roof; being shot at by the Chicago Police Department helicopter sharpshooter aided by a blinding spotlight; the bone-jarring tumble through the roof-top skylight onto an idle freight elevator cab; his brutally won but hardly conclusive victory in the laundry facility on the fifth floor; a sketchy, but essential tending of his wounds in the hotel's first aid facility; and finally, his departure in cuffs from the Hilton Tower, surrounded by deputy US marshals, who, to his perplexity, had been concerned more for his safety than about any escape attempt he might make. Once removed from the public eye, Deputy Gerard had gently freed him from the hated restraints, which had proclaimed him his wife's murderer for the last fifteen months.

He had been driven here in a two-car convoy, guided to this long, but elderly sofa; handed a cup of stale, lukewarm coffee; and urged to rest. Left alone, Kimble had sat for a long time, staring at nothing, keyed up but exhausted, relieved but empty, and hurting with a totality that once would have tested his imagination. He must have lain down at some point, though he did not recall doing so, and someone, unnoticed, must have covered him with this heavy coat. Because he had looked cold? Because he had been shivering? _Had_ he been shivering? Reflexively, Kimble picked up the coat, shook it out, and draped it evenly over the back of the sofa.

Why was he still here?

 _"I know it, Richard,"_ Gerard had said, when Kimble had declared Charles Nichols and Devlin-Macgregor responsible for killing his wife. " _I_ know _it._ "

Was something being done to free him—or was this no more than a stopover on the return trip to the state prison?

"You're a mess, Richard," Gutherie said bluntly.

"Thanks, Walter."

"You ready to leave?"

Kimble focused on the other man with cautious hope. "Leave?"

A rueful smile displaced some of the weariness in the lawyer's eyes. "That's why I've been up half the night. Securing your release. That deputy, Gerard, knows some judge who approved your bail."

"Bail?" Kimble began to wipe his mouth with the back of a wrist; he flinched, then proceeded more gingerly. That tentative voice could not be his; surely he had never sounded so unsure of himself.

"Personal recognizance. Come on, Richard! It's already four in the morning, and I'd like to get _some_ sleep tonight."

Painfully Kimble rose from the sofa, chagrined at the sudden wave of dizziness that slowed his ascent, the weakness of limbs that threatened to fell him altogether. Gutherie put out a hand, but Kimble ignored it. He must do this on his own, carried forward by sheer determination if necessary.

In the next instant, the faintness began to pass, leaving him trembling but upright. Kimble straightened his jacket. He raked bruised and bulkily bandaged fingers through his hair.

"You look like you need a doctor," Gutherie observed, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Fighting the impulse to smile—it would reopen the split in his lip—Kimble murmured dryly, "I am a doctor, Walter."

Outside the break-room, they were met by two deputy marshals who politely but insistently escorted them out of the offices high in the glass-fronted building to the underground parking garage where Gutherie's car was parked under protection. One of the deputies was young, fair, his hair bound back in a ponytail; the other, older, dark-skinned, her manner pleasant but brooking no nonsense. He had heard Gerard refer to them as Newman and Poole. Gerard himself was nowhere in sight, though he responded quickly enough by walkie-talkie when hailed. It was the blond deputy's intention to escort them through town; Gutherie balked. A staticky conversation ensued with Gerard bowing to Gutherie's will in the end. They were allowed to leave without guards in tow.

Once on the road, the plush, ultra-comfortable seats of Gutherie's Cadillac, the cozily warm interior, and Gutherie's turtle-slow style of driving worked more efficiently, and with fewer side effects, than a sedative in putting Kimble to sleep.

* * * * *

_"You and the doc sure make a good-looking couple back there, Sam."_

_"Up yours, Biggs."_

All motion abruptly ceased, the nearly subliminal vibration of the car's engine more noticeable in its absence than it had been at any time during the journey from—where? For a moment utterly unfamiliar with his surroundings, Kimble floated in a fugue state, not entirely awake, not entirely asleep.

"Richard, come _on_. We're here."

It was Walter Gutherie again, standing outside the passenger window of the car, looking acutely uncomfortable in his expensive wool jacket in the frigid, unyielding darkness of early, early morning—not Samuel Gerard, dapper in his cheery, red scarf and navy blue suit-coat, who had seemed to suffer not at all from the elements. The wisp of memory—Kimble riding in the backseat of the government car, warm, a wiry, muscled arm around his shoulders—evaporated before he realized that he might want to save it.

"Where the hell is here?" he wondered aloud, mouth sluggishly working around its wounds.

"Donham's. That Deputy Gerard arranged it. There's a room reserved in your name."

The building beyond the tinted glass of the Cadillac's windshield was one unknown to Kimble. Georgian in design, it exuded affluence, comfort, and welcome in equal parts. Even in the dim glow of muted lamps, there was no mistaking the gleam of fresh lacquer on the abundance of wood trim, the meticulously tidy landscaping, and the overall air of polished elegance.

Unfolding stiffly from the passenger seat, Kimble gave his head a slow shake. "Gerard arranged _this_?"

"He's been a busy boy," Gutherie said without a crinkle of humor. "Had me up half the night along with a lot of other people."

Kimble leaned against the side of the car; it was covered with a fine misting of dew. "Why should he bother?"

"Who knows? Maybe he thinks he owes you something. You up to walking, Richard?"

Stifling a yawn to avoid opening his mouth too wide, Kimble regarded the smaller man beside him. A year and a half ago, Gutherie had failed him. He had given up the search for the one-armed man; he had lacked faith in Kimble's innocence. But at this moment, Kimble held none of that against him. In fact, at this moment, enfolded in the twin embraces of overwhelming fatigue and furious discomfort, Kimble, contradictorily, held nothing against anyone.

"Thanks, Walter."

The lawyer shrugged. "Thank me later. Let's get you inside."

"I—"

"Gerard's instructions. At least he trusted me enough to get you here without an armed guard."

"Only because you complained. This is a bit high-dollar, isn't it?" Kimble spoke to cover the reluctance of body and spirit to assist in forward motion.

"USMS is picking up the tab." Gutherie waved his keys at the valet who had been patiently waiting for him to relinquish the car. "For tonight and tomorrow. I'll be back out in a few minutes," he added to the young man. Coming abreast of Kimble, he unobtrusively acted as guide and guard as they negotiated the wide, deep-carpeted steps into the building. Inside, Gutherie bypassed the reception area, murmuring that Kimble was already registered.

Argument beyond him, Kimble shuffled along in the lawyer's wake. Eyes squinted shut against the brightness of the corridor lights, he yearned for the bed that lay at the end of this journey. And a couple of aspirins—they would not be refused, either. Wearing his aches and pains like cripplingly heavy robes of state, Kimble trudged forward, shoulders unwillingly bowed, his features a tightly controlled mask.

An elevator ride, eight floors, and a single door later, Kimble exclaimed, "The penthouse suite?"

"Gerard's instructions," Gutherie said, the phrase beginning to sound like a mantra.

Kimble looked around, at a loss that he, still a criminal in the eyes of the law, should be accorded such treatment.

Holding the telephone handpiece off hook, Gutherie said to Kimble, "Richard, pay attention, please. For just a minute, okay? Then you can get yourself cleaned up."

It required considerable effort, but Kimble managed to comply.

"I'm ordering breakfast for you. I'll stay until it arrives. You need to eat something."

Kimble's stomach agreed with a hollow groan.

"I'll be back later this afternoon, with clothes and money. You're to order anything you want from room service, but it's best if you stay inside today. No one knows where you are right now; Gerard's seen to that."

"Why? Why is he doing all of this?" A shaky hand indicated more than their opulent surroundings.

"The United States Marshals Service is very conscious of its public image. They've suffered a few set-backs lately; they intend to reverse their recent negative publicity by making amends with you."

"Seems," Kimble mused wryly, "rather excessive."

Gutherie conceded a smile. "It is. That's Gerard's doing. Don't ask me why! One last thing. He's had me arrange a press conference for tomorrow afternoon. It'll be held in the conference room downstairs."

"Gerard had you arrange a _press conference_?" The very idea made him squirm.

Wide-spread hands disavowed all complicity. "Yes. He knows the media is after you; says it's best to meet them on _your_ terms, take control of the situation before they do."

"What am I supposed to tell them?" As he spoke, Kimble was edging his way toward the bathroom. Even from the half-open door, he could tell that it was much more than a sink, commode, and bath. _Palatial_ was a word he might have used.

"He left that to you, though he suggested that you bear in mind that you're still up for charges associated with your escape—and the conviction for murder still stands."

Kimble took hold of the oak door, leaning heavily against it. "What about all of that, Walter? What—?"

"Gerard said he'll do what he can. Between you and me, I called around asking some friends about him, Richard—hey, if I had to be up at one in the morning, no reason I should be the only one!—and I can tell you he's considered a very powerful man."

"Gerard?" Kimble rolled the thought around inside his head. "Somehow," he muttered, "that's not very surprising."

"Go on. Get cleaned up," Walter said, raising the handset to his ear. "I'll order you something to eat."

* * * * *

The remainder of that day passed amidst choppy dreams and coma-like sleep. Kimble ate his breakfast after a long and very hot shower. True to his word, Gutherie left him alone as soon as the meal arrived. Late in the afternoon, while indulging in a second, longer shower, Kimble was beckoned forth by a knock at his door. A glance through the peephole set his mind at ease. It was Walter Gutherie, carrying a suitcase—containing the promised personal effects, he hoped.

"Much better," Gutherie commented, after giving Kimble a meat-market appraisal.

"Much," Kimble concurred shortly.

"Have you eaten?"

"I'm still digesting breakfast."

"You mean, you slept through lunch."

Kimble smiled. It was a tiny smile. His mouth still hurt.

"Are you ready to talk about the situation, or would you rather wait until tomorrow morning?"

"Order something for dinner, Walter." He took the suitcase from the other man and carried it into the bedroom. "I'll decide after that."

"All right."

A part of Kimble's past was contained in the suitcase. Gutherie had thoughtfully packed casual as well as semi-formal wear, the latter of which Kimble would send out to be pressed for the next day's meeting with the media. Shaving kit, underwear, even, for God's sake, the cologne he had not worn since the night Helen died, were neatly arrayed amongst the articles of clothing.

Dressed in once-favored slacks and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, both of which hung loosely on him now, he stood in front of the bedroom mirror, seeing himself clearly for the first time in fifteen months. The hours of undisturbed sleep had been hearteningly restorative. Kimble had begun to think that he would suffer that leaden-weight exhaustion forever. Since awakening, however, he felt almost insubstantial, lightheaded, giddy. _Too much sleep_ , he concluded. He was pale, gaunt-featured, and bruised, and his eyes exhibited a woeful emptiness, as though everything that was good in his life had been plucked from their purview, leaving only a scorched wasteland stretching endlessly in all directions.

Helen was dead. Charles, her murderer, had betrayed them both. Kimble's reputation and practice were in tatters, and he was still accountable for a murder conviction, as well as new criminal charges. Despite this breathing space, it was not inconceivable that he would yet spend the remainder of his years incarcerated—providing the State of Illinois did not iterate its sentence of death by lethal injection.

A mirthless grin ghosted across his lips, a lopsided, grudging tribute to a man with no future.

* * * * *

Walter sat at one end of the sizable dining table in the alcove adjacent to the fully equipped and provisioned kitchen. The penthouse suite claimed nearly as much square footage as Kimble's sprawling, tri-level home on the Near North Side. The table was set with an abundance and variety of food that made him blink with wonderment and wary anticipation. For all his recent travail, his appetite, subdued and often altogether lacking during his imprisonment, had returned with a vengeance.

"Good," Gutherie stated approvingly. "The press will see you as you ought to be seen."

Heaping a plate with succulent slices of roast beef, new potatoes, a medley of green vegetables, mouthwateringly fresh biscuits, and a savory gravy that made his nostrils flare, Kimble mumbled, "And how, exactly, is that?"

"A private citizen, responsible, productive, very badly treated by the system."

"I'm all of that," Kimble agreed.

"I can't tell you what to say—"

Sinking his teeth into a forkful of vegetables, Kimble briefly closed his eyes. The food tasted every bit as delicious as it smelled. "But?"

"Try not to step on any toes. The CPD, state judiciary, they're all clenching their buttocks over this. And they're going to look bad enough without you rubbing it in."

Kimble was puzzled. "Walter, I'm still a criminal. Nothing's been proven about Sykes and Char—"

"It will be." A skewered green bean dangled perilously off the tines of Gutherie's fork. "Gerard's got the evidence to support your story." He hesitated as though intending to say more, caught sight of the green bean, and promptly dispatched it.

"So he's got evidence. It took over a year for my case to be brought to trial. How long do you think it'll take _this_ time?"

"Richard, you don't need me to answer that. Too long if you're guilty; much too long if you're innocent."

"Spare me the rhetoric. Just tell me what my legal options are." Kimble began to poke at his food again.

"We petition for a retrial. Not the best of options as there were no grounds to declare the first one a mistrial." At Kimble's arch look, Gutherie explained, "No misconduct. All parties proceeded in good faith given the evidence available." As Kimble furiously swallowed, indignation gurgling at the bottom of his throat, Gutherie hurried to anticipate him. "Just listen for a minute, will you? Another is appellate court. I understand Sykes has confessed, if only to drag Nichols into the shit with him. That's good; it would go a long way toward gaining an acquittal. But an acquittal won't clear you of the charges associated with your escape. And as you pointed out, it'll take months before your previous conviction can come before a judge—and even longer before the new charges will be tried."

Kimble's knife scraped the plate as he doggedly cut into a slice of beef. "But during that time I'll be free?"

" _Unless_ you're jailed on one or more of the new charges, Richard."

The lawyer was exhausted; the previous night's activities had taken their toll. Gloomily biting back a retort, Kimble met his eyes. "Go on."

"I've already written an appeal. But," Gutherie returned his gaze levelly, "I don't think it will come to that."

"Why not?"

Gutherie almost grinned. "Gerard has already requested a pardon on your behalf. Quietly, of course. I know, and you know. Nobody else. Keep it that way, okay?"

"A pardon?" Kimble set his fork in the middle of his plate. "What exactly would that mean?"

"It's the quickest way to get you cleared of the murder conviction—and any and all charges resulting from your escape."

"But a pardon— Is that a good idea?"

"In this case, yes. You're probably thinking of President Ford's pardon of Nixon. _That_ pardon acknowledged that wrongdoing may have occurred, but exonerated any possible wrongdoings of all criminal status, charged or pending." An odd expression flickered behind Gutherie's thick lenses. "Gerard said you'd question that. He seems to know you awfully well."

Kimble hesitated. "He hunted me for six days. It was like he knew where I was before I did." The memory galled. "I used to wonder if he was reading my mind."

"Well, he said if you asked, to tell you that a pardon can carry a stipulation of innocence along with a dismissal of _all_ crimes and charges, effective or pending."

"So all the stuff I did while I was looking for Helen's killers—?"

"Would be forgiven. Though certainly you could be sued by someone who was injured or financially inconvenienced by your actions."

"Sued!" This was a complication that Kimble had not contemplated.

"You stole an ambulance, Richard, and a man's clothing and wallet; you practiced medicine without current certification; you were witnessed beating Fredrick Sykes on the El and roughing up Charles Nichols in the Hilton. You left him paralyzed, Richard!"

Outrage melted. Kimble flinched.

"It's a possibility, that's all," Gutherie insisted.

Closing his eyes, Kimble cradled his head in his hands, fingertips pressed against his temples. The butterfly bandage over his right eyebrow reminded him why it was there.

"However, if you were given a pardon, any such suits would most likely be dismissed out of hand," Gutherie continued soothingly.

"Walter." Kimble heaved a sigh. "Is he paralyzed? Really?"

"Maybe," Gutherie hedged. "Probably." His shoulders twitched under his coat jacket. "I heard a couple of the deputies in Gerard's office talking about it."

Kimble raised his head. When he spoke, his voice was hard. "About the pardon. It's voluntary, isn't it? I mean, it'd be my choice, if I were offered one?"

Gutherie grimaced. "Yes. And if you felt it didn't exonerate you fully, you'd be right to refuse. But, Richard, I don't think you understand. _If_ Gerard manages to pull this off, it'll be a rarity like you can't imagine. Pardons, especially these days, are just not handed out. They can be political suicide, and they set a bad example—no matter the circumstances. They entirely circumvent the legal process. If the governor offers you a pardon—a full and freely offered pardon—you'd be a fool not to accept!"

"Stop shouting, Walter; I hear you." Kimble dropped his chin into his hand. "You really think he can talk the governor into it? Despite all the risks—including the chance of some really stinking press? Somebody's bound to object, you and I know that; the governor must too."

Both of Gutherie's hands rose like birds into the air. " _He_ thinks he can. Gerard didn't go into detail, but he implied that the governor is an old friend of his—an old friend who owes him a favor."

"Some favor." Kimble's body ached from head to toe. He wanted to lie down again. "Okay. So how long does a pardon take, then?"

Gutherie leaned forward, elbows propped on the edge of the table. "Gerard said you should be ready to take up your life—that's how he put it: _take up your life_ —within a couple of weeks, maybe a month."

The significance of what Gutherie was telling him began to register. Kimble blurted, "You _really_ think he can pull this off!"

Glancing around the room, Gutherie said, "He got you in _here_ because he was formerly with WITSEC." When Kimble failed to look suitably impressed, he elucidated, "That's the Witness Security Program. You know, where they send the wiseguys? He wouldn't say much about it—"

"Imagine that."

"But he was involved with WITSEC long enough to make some important contacts—and to get the hell out before he could be tarred by association."

Kimble said, "Oh, no, I don't see Gerard involved in anything not one hundred percent aboveboard." Hearing the bitterness in his voice, he went on tonelessly, "He tried to kill me, you know. More than once."

"He was doing his job." Gutherie leaned forward again. "Richard, don't let your personal feelings toward Deputy Gerard get in the way. You have a right to be angry with a lot of people—even me, maybe—but think about the future. You have one now; a week ago, you didn't. Like it or not, Gerard had a hand in that."

Appetite gone, Kimble sat back, reaching for his glass. "I'm not an idiot, Walter, no matter what you've always thought. And if he can help me, I won't refuse." Sipping his wine, he allowed its warmth and sweetness to linger on his tongue before swallowing it down. "So what do I do in the meantime? What are my options?"

The lawyer sagged with relief. "Let's take our drinks into the living room, and I'll tell you."

* * * * *

Saturday morning dawned crisp, clear, and numbingly cold. Despite a late night, Kimble found himself irremediably awake amidst the first rays of anemic sunshine owing to the hooligan antics of birds in the tree outside his window. The throb inside his head had waned to an aggressive pulse; light no longer made him wince. The cuts and tears on his hands were scabbing over, leaving his knuckles ridged with dark islands of serous matter, long and short scratches forming a map-like network of reddish lines that stretched from the outer base of both wrists to the tips of his fingers. While stiff and clumsy, his hands were reasonably functional.

Gutherie was not responsible for Kimble's lack of sleep. The lawyer had left him to his own devices just after six o'clock, advising an early night preparatory to the press conference. Instead, his thoughts awhirl following their after-dinner conversation, Kimble had brooded over the possibility of being a free man for the first time in fifteen months.

It came as no revelation to learn that there would be no compensation for the mental, physical, and financial damage resulting from this "miscarriage of justice" (Kimble loved the hoary, clichéd phrases Gutherie trotted out). In order that he understand his situation fully, Gutherie, who held Kimble's power-of-attorney and had overseen all of his effects, had brought him up to date regarding his present status.

His investments, property, and personal goods had been looked after with all due care. Though the townhouse was closed up and the more expensive belongings had been stored in a secure location elsewhere, it would require little to make the place fully habitable. Of money there was plenty. Now that bail had been granted, Kimble once more had full access to his and Helen's joint and separate accounts. These sums would soon be added to by Helen's sizable life insurance payout, for which Gutherie would file without delay. He knew the request would be questioned, given the circumstances of her death coupled with Kimble's conviction of her murder; but all legal obstructions would be subverted when Kimble's pardon was announced, and the paperwork would be ready.

The payout was the last thing Kimble wanted to hear about; he made all the right noises at all the right places while Gutherie outlined his strategies, but he did not really listen. He was consumed with the possibility of being pardoned. To his mind, it was a dream-thing, and he would not believe it until the official document was in hand and he could see for himself—in black and white—that _all_ charges and convictions had been dismissed and expunged, that the document itself had been signed by the governor (and an official copy properly filed), and general notice given to the public, and all appropriate enforcement authorities, that Richard Kimble was a free man. An _innocent_ man.

Of more practical consideration, beyond reputation, beyond wealth, beyond personal redress was, _how would he become a doctor again?_ Could he? Was there a hospital in this town that would take him on as staff? Equally to the point, were there patients who would trust him not to murder them? There was, of course, a way to find out. This very afternoon, following the dreaded press conference, he could pay a visit to the head people at CMH, sound them out, see if there was any chance of his signing on as a staff physician once he was cleared, once he had renewed his certification, once he had brought himself up to speed on the volumes of information generated in the field of vascular surgery during his fifteen months in limbo.

A lot of "ifs" to be considered; not to mention that the idea filled him with as much terror as enthusiasm. After all those years as a respected and admired surgeon, labeled an expert in his field, could he simply pick up where he had left off? Would his confidence, an integral element of ego and personality, prove him capable, or fail him utterly?

The image of a little boy, wriggling in acute discomfort, his chest swollen and taut with blood from an artery damaged by a broken rib, came back to him. He had not hesitated then, nor had he doubted his ability. Instinct, not just years of practice, had kicked in without conscious thought on his part.

Kimble smiled vaguely, and with only a twinge of pain, to himself. Maybe it could work. Maybe he _would_ be able to reclaim his life—or most of it, anyway. Helen, after all, was gone forever. He would pay that visit to CMH—but later.

* * * * *

In the hours preceding the press conference, Kimble immersed himself in reading. He pored over the local papers as well as those from New York and Los Angeles. To his cringing fascination, he noted that others had endured the peculiar hell of press interrogation just the day before: Deputy US Marshal Sam Gerard, representing the USMS, and Investigators Kelly and Rosetti, speaking for the Chicago Police Department.

Gerard's comments were thoughtful, polite, and reasonably forthcoming while Kelly and Rosetti spoke with bilious resentment, peevishness, and lack of grace. All of the articles made note of the fact that Gerard now championed Kimble's cause based on new evidence ascertained through standard investigative procedure, whereas the CPD had sought only to recapture him—by whatever means necessary. Presented with the opportunity, Investigator Kelly had once again stated that under the law, Kimble was guilty of the murder of his wife, and until an appellate court proved him otherwise, he would _continue_ to be guilty of murdering his wife. Based on Gutherie's appraisal of the situation, Kimble could not fault the man's stubbornness, though he smarted at his sneering righteousness.

A photo accompanying one of the articles featured Gerard in close-up, conservatively attired, neatly groomed, and civilly unsmiling. His ability to affect Kimble worked even on paper; at sight of him, Kimble was hard pressed to quash a shiver.

All involved had addressed the facts as they were allowed by the authorities to be known. Yes, Kimble was at present free on a bail of personal recognizance; yes, Dr. Charles Nichols and former police officer Fredrick Sykes were in custody pending arraignment for the murder of Helen Kimble; and yes, it was expected that steps would be taken immediately to clear Dr. Richard Kimble's name.

When asked his opinion, Gerard had remarked, "Dr. Kimble is a resourceful and intelligent man who deserves the utmost respect and support of the public, as well as his friends. It's up to the legal system now to admit that sometimes justice stumbles." ("Boy, does it ever," Kimble mumbled to himself.)

Mid-day, Gutherie arrived. Kimble ordered lunch while the lawyer handed over the keys to Kimble's Mercedes, Helen's Porsche, their townhouse, the storage facility, and safe deposit boxes. The sight of them set off an odd trembling that Kimble would have liked to deny but which betrayed him by its very existence. Gutherie thankfully said nothing, though he waved Kimble into a chair when room service was announced. Tears burned at the back of his eyes. Were these the keys to his very past that they should so disturb him by their reappearance? In a way, perhaps they were. He, an honorable man, had been deprived of home, property, and profession. More than he realized, he had adjusted to that privation. Now, having the material trappings of his world restored was almost as devastating as the event that had precipitated their confiscation.

At two, Kimble prepared for the looming ordeal with especial attention to his grooming. He ran a comb through his hair, thinking to himself that there was notably more grey in it than had been discernible only a week ago; he shaved for the second time that day, wondering idly if he should let his beard grow out again; and he dressed in a dark, navy blue suit and a sober, black silk tie, the choice of clothing Gutherie's and not his own.

Half an hour later, he wended his way from the lobby elevator, through the glass-enclosed, plant-filled atrium, to the spaciously designed Victoria Room. Having been coached at length by Gutherie over what sort of questions he would be asked, and how, legally and sensibly, he should answer, Kimble had determined that it would seem combative or overly cautious—or both—to have the lawyer appear at his side. So, limping purposefully to the front of the room, he took center stage unannounced. He elected to stand with the podium at his back, his hands forcibly relaxed, bandaged fingers loosely woven together, his abraded, bruised face clearly visible to everyone.

His arrival set off a flutter of motion and whispered comments. He took advantage of that moment to adjust to the presence of the crowd, the intense glare of lights—frequently made blindingly brilliant by powerful hand-held flashes—the faint but constant whir of cameras, video and audio recorders, and the endless jostling of bodies, shuffling of feet, creaking of metal folding chairs, and the inevitable sneezing and coughing.

Unaware that he looked every bit as determinedly open, but hopelessly outnumbered as he felt, Kimble raised a hand to call for silence, while attempting a smile that faltered into a fixed grin. Having expected a cacophony of questions, he was almost unnerved by the intense quiet that greeted him.

"Um— You'll have to excuse me." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "But I'm new at this. So— Who wants to go first?"

His disarming candor opened the floodgates. For the next half hour, Kimble responded to questions, some pointed, others not, but none of which he could not handle.

"Dr. Kimble, have you filed for an appeal?"

"Will you return to your practice?"

"How does it feel to be free after so long?"

"How were you, a man on the run, able to track down the real murderer when the Chicago Police Department could not?"

"Deputy marshal Sam Gerard has stated that he will do everything in his power to help prove your innocence. Isn't he the same officer who tried to shoot you in the downtown lockup just three days ago—and how do you feel about that?"

"Dr. Charles Nichols is an old friend of yours. Why has he been implicated in the murder of your wife? And is it true that you broke his back?"

"What does your legal counsel intend to do with your case now?"

Careful to thoroughly think over each question before responding, Kimble artfully avoided speculation while emphasizing facts already publicly known. Of course, he was grateful to be out of prison; his lawyer was evaluating the situation before submitting his appeal; he had every intention of resuming his profession once cleared; undoubtedly desperation and a certain extreme motivation (a soft titter rose at his choice of words) had given him a slight edge over the overworked and undermanned CPD; from the perspective of a fugitive, he could assert categorically that the United States Marshals Service had failed to apprehend him only out of sheer bad luck on their part; he had nothing but the highest regard for Deputy Sam Gerard, whose perseverance and devotion to duty were ultimately responsible for Kimble being alive and free today; while it was true that he had struck Dr. Charles Nichols with a metal pipe easily hard enough to break his back, he had done so only to keep him from murdering again—his intended victim having been Deputy Gerard who had followed them into the laundry at the Hilton Towers.

At the end of the agreed-upon time, Kimble closed the session firmly but with a solemn good humor that for the most part won over his interrogators. They responded with obligatory requests for an extension, but conceded more or less decently to his steadfast but cordial refusals.

Once he had made good his escape, Kimble found Gutherie waiting for him in the lobby outside the bank of elevators. The lawyer let out a slow breath at sight of him. He wagged his head from side to side with exaggerated relief.

"It went okay, then," Gutherie said.

"Pointless, as far as I'm concerned, but okay, yeah." An elevator cab appeared in answer to their summons; Kimble stepped in alongside Gutherie and poked a finger on the penthouse button. "I mean, it was just a rehashing of almost everything Gerard had already told them in _his_ press conference. And don't worry, Walter, I didn't give anything away; I didn't say anything nasty about anyone; and I didn't lose my temper."

"You've changed, Richard," the lawyer observed. Sensing that his remark had been taken in jest, Gutherie persisted, "I'm serious. You really have." The elevator doors slid open.

"Yeah?"

"Maybe it's temporary, the result of everything you've been through. But, I think you have."

This was not something Kimble liked to discuss; nevertheless, he knew it to be true. He _had_ changed, and there was nothing temporary about it. The Richard Kimble of old had been complacent, self-assured, and largely removed from the ugliness of life. While he had daily confronted disease, injury, and death as a matter of course, his professional standing and personal income had insulated him from the poverty, poor health, and humiliation of those less well off.

Then of course there had been Helen. Wealthy, beautiful, socially well-placed Helen, who had expected him to participate in her world in reciprocation for gracing his. She had not asked it of him often, nor he of her. As a consequence, however, rubbing elbows with the rich and terribly well groomed had been no novelty to him. Together, they had taken for granted the dream of affluence and happiness that all others aspire to.

He no longer took anything for granted. On the contrary, Kimble knew now that the foundations of that life had been formed of gossamer and sunshine, not stone and mortar. Lovely to behold; impossible to sustain.

"Maybe so, Walter." Kimble unlocked the door to the suite.

Gutherie made a beeline to the liquor cabinet, selected a Scotch for himself, invited Kimble with upraised glass to join him, then poured a finger into a single glass when Kimble gestured his refusal. "Are you still thinking of returning to the townhouse?"

Only deciding at that very moment, Kimble said, "Yes. In fact, I'm going over there tonight."

"Your room here is paid for through tomorrow," Gutherie reminded him mildly.

"I know." Biting his lip, Kimble considered his next words. "It's something I've wanted to do—and dreaded to do—for a long time. You know I haven't been there since that night."

"It has been—" Gutherie hesitated. "Cleaned up," he finished delicately.

"Of course it has, Walter. Helen isn't there; her blood isn't there." Kimble closed his eyes. "But, for me, it's like delaying the funeral a year and half. That was our home."

"It's still your home."

"No. Just a house now." Kimble drew a self-conscious face. "The old cliché. Doesn't make it any less true."

"Are you thinking about selling it?"

"Yes, I am."

"Do you want me to arrange it?"

"I'd be grateful if you would, Walter. The Porsche, too. Whatever you can get for the car, give it to the Humane Society. Helen would like that." Kimble ran tender fingers through his hair. "Would have liked that." He went to the bedside table and hooked out the ring of keys Gutherie had given him earlier. "I don't intend to stay at the house for more than a couple of nights. I'm going to get an apartment. Nothing fancy. A two- or three-bedroom ought to do. Can you recommend someone to help me out?" He unclasped the keys to the Porsche from the ring and handed them to the lawyer.

His brow furrowed, Gutherie looked down at the keys in his palm. "Don't you think you should wait a while before taking such permanent steps?"

"No," Kimble replied. "It probably won't sell right away—some people are leery of moving into a place where murder has been committed, you know—" His tone was even but edged with cold irony. "But I would like to move somewhere else as soon as possible. It'll only take a couple of days to sort through our things."

" _Richard._ " Gutherie's exasperation came through loud and clear. All of a sudden, Kimble was reminded of Deputy Gerard, who had spoken his name in exactly that tone of voice. But, when? They had not exchanged more than a few words from the first— "Stay in the hotel tonight," Gutherie was saying. "Don't make any snap decisions."

It had been in the tunnel overlooking the dam. _"Richard, do you want to get shot?"_ Kimble had been slow to obey when Gerard had told him to put his hands in the air, to turn around, to give himself up. Gun leveled at Kimble's chest, Gerard had spoken to him more in the manner of an adult cajoling a recalcitrant child than of a law enforcement officer compelling an escapee on the brink of self-annihilation to bend to his will.

Kimble regarded his old friend calmly. "I can always back out at the last minute once you've got an interested party— _if_ I decide I don't want to sell. An apartment will be cheaper than staying here."

"You have—"

"The money. I know. Don't bother trying to talk me out of it, Walter. Just see about finding a place not too far from the hospital, if you can; and near a train line so I won't always have to catch a cab." As a convicted felon, it would take an acquittal—or a pardon—for Kimble to reacquire his driver's license. So much for the keys to the Mercedes weighing so heavily inside his pocket.

"All right, all right. You said you wanted to go over to the house. Do you want to go now? I can take you. Save you the damned cab fare."

Gratitude softened Kimble's features. "Please. Just give me a minute to pack."

* * * * *

It was like, Kimble mused, stepping into one of his dreams. This townhouse, its sharp, uncluttered angles; floating staircase; carefully blended colors and pristine lines; overall open design. Every aspect of his former home had often appeared to him in sleep. At first, and then recurringly, he had pictured it just as it had been the last time he had seen it: the night of Helen's death. Later, and more frequently as the months had passed, it had served as the backdrop for the most mundane of activities. Watching television; helping Helen bake breads, cakes, cookies—whatever he was suffering a craving for at the time (when he did not do it himself. He had long ago discovered that baking provided a happy occupation during spells of early morning insomnia, a condition he had been prone to his entire adult life); wandering its wide, welcoming spaces in search of a certain book—he had squandered an entire night dream-searching for his oft-perused copy of _The Dead_. How many occasions had his mind reached back to this place, which now stood nearly hollow, the bulk of its furnishings either in storage or pushed into corners and draped with huge sheets of plastic to fend off dust?

Alone—at his request, Gutherie had left him on the street outside the building after stopping long enough for Kimble to pick up carry-out chicken for later—he drifted from room to room, his footsteps silent on the thickly carpeted floors. They had lived here how long?—Seven years? Eight?—but after fifteen months in a tiny cell with only the most basic conveniences, this place, where he had experienced his greatest joy, as well as his greatest sorrow, no longer seemed to know him—nor he, it.

Objects that once had mattered to him—the sofa he used to lie on while reading in his study, the clock on the mantle (an heirloom from Helen's family), the expensive and delicately beautiful piece of art that he and Helen had selected to celebrate their second anniversary—held no meaning for him now. All were just _things_. Soulless. Impersonal. Lifeless. Lacking the warming influence of Helen's vitality, which had burned brightly even in the frosty heart of winter, they merely stood silent and shrouded—as dead in their way as Helen herself.

Kimble completed his tour of the house in the master bedroom, his thoughts already turning to the practical aspects of putting the place up for sale. Certain pieces would go with the house, some of his clothing and most of Helen's effects would go to charities, the paintings and artifacts—here and in storage—he would put under commission at an auction house. Such considerations paraded through his head as he stared down at the floor where Helen had died of massive brain trauma and blood loss, seeing now no stain to mark her passing, seeing nothing but new, plush replacement carpeting.

He sank to his heels, stretching out a hand to touch the velvet pile. The only consolation left to him during all those interminable, nightmarish months, clung to like a talisman even in moments of blackest despair, had been that Helen had died in his arms and that she had known that it was he who held her last.

Kimble rose. Eyes bleak, he surveyed the dismantled bed frame and mattresses standing on end, propped up against the far wall. It had been a very long time before he could remember holding Helen in his arms with love rather than grief. The first such occurrence had been in a dream, the sweetness of which had been rudely dispelled by his awakening. But with the inexorable distancing of time, he had come to terms with his loss—for the most part, anyway. At least that terrible, scalding bitterness no longer held court deep inside him now, and with her murderers in custody, he felt less as though he had failed her.

Helen had been a vibrant child of life; she would not have wanted him to mourn her too long, nor to suffer her passing too keenly. He was grateful that she could not have known what would befall him, nor that she herself would unwittingly hold the trump card for his accusers. _"Richard...he's trying to kill me."_ She would have expected him to start over as soon as possible, probably to remarry, certainly to re-establish himself among his peers. Above all, to be happy.

He could not promise that he would remarry, nor that he would regain a place of prominence in the world of medicine, least of all that he would be happy.

But he would start over.

* * * * *

He began on Sunday when Gutherie handed him over to his recommended real estate agent. The woman was in her fifties, attractive, indefatigable, and well-versed in her chosen avocation—but no more than civil and rather more than faintly distrusting of him. Kimble accepted that this would be a new element in his life, one that he must learn to accept, even if (or, when, as Gutherie insisted) he was pardoned or acquitted.

Monday he met with Kathy Wahlund, CMH's cardinal medical researcher, his staunchest friend and unwavering supporter, and the only one throughout his ordeal to visit, write, and call whenever possible. They chatted about inconsequentials. How things were going, what he intended to do, which if any of his long-held ambitions had survived. Reassured by his responses, she directed him, matter-of-fact as always, to a box spilling over with eighteen months worth of medical journals, tracts, and miscellaneous reports (many bearing his own name, delivered to the hospital during his absence) which she had been saving for him, and proposed firmly that he start to apply himself. His pained expression must have tickled her, for she gave him a crushing hug, then hauled him down to the cafeteria for lunch.

Afterward, she turned him over to the hospital administrators for a meeting suggested that very morning by the head of Administration himself, Dr. Morton Feinberg. His phone call, arranging a time to discuss CMH's current critical staffing difficulties and his desire to relieve that situation by bringing Kimble back on staff, had come as a shock.

Feinberg's pleasant, professional manner on the phone had in no way prepared Kimble for the meeting to come. On the contrary, his overall reception was glacial. Hostility and resentment stared at him out of the faces of the board members with whom he had once been on quite good terms. Only Feinberg, distant and faintly contemptuous as always, made Kimble in the least welcome. This, coming from the man who had once taken him to task at a fund-raising event for sporting a paisley rather than solid black vest after Kimble had personally secured a million-dollar pledge for the hospital's vascular unit, bordered on the surreal.

But it was also Feinberg, speaking for the hospital, who now promised him a position the moment Kimble's personal situation was resolved—and let slip as well that it was his understanding that that moment might be upon them very soon. To that end he supplied Kimble with all the necessary forms that would reinstate him as a staff surgeon with Chicago Memorial. Then he thanked him once more for meeting with him and his administrators on such short notice and sent him on his way.

Stunned, Kimble immediately sought out Kathy Wahlund in her offices, guided by the instinct that she of all people would comprehend the magnitude of this news. After a celebratory peck on the cheek, she reminded him that the next step would be to pass his NBME recertification examinations, for which she had prudently pre-enrolled him as well as having put in a request for his transcripts.

Recertification was the least of the obstacles facing him, but Kimble thanked her (Wahlund had taken charge where he had hesitated to do so), obdurately biting back a sudden uprush of emotion, then fled with his box of journals and employment forms before he could embarrass himself.

Only when he was in a taxi on the way back to his townhouse had he thought to ask how she and the hospital's administrators had known that there was a chance of his returning to work so soon. The question nagged at him throughout the hours of the evening until just before nine, when he took phone in hand and dialed Wahlund's number.

"That deputy," she replied, stifling a yawn. "He told me. Said you might need someone to keep an eye on you for a little while. You don't mind, do you?"

Kimble was too stupefied to mind at all.

"Oh, and, Richard. Did you know that Deputy Gerard is old pals with Feinberg?"

This scrap of information clanged loudly inside Kimble's brain as it was added to the pile. "No. But I bet that means Gerard likes solid-colored vests, too."

"What?"

"Nothing, Kath. Good night. And, thanks."

Late Tuesday evening, his real estate agent showed him the apartment he wanted. By Thursday evening of that same week, Kimble had gone through everything in the townhouse, selected the items he would keep and which he would part with. Of Helen's clothing, he kept nothing. A Goodwill truck pulled up in front of the building Thursday afternoon and loaded up bags, boxes, and pieces of furniture set out earlier that morning. He designated a selection of jewelry for a once-close friend of hers, Desiree Hall, who now lived in Los Angeles. After a brief but pleasant telephone conversation with her Wednesday evening—Desiree had never believed Kimble guilty and had been one of the few people to write to him in prison—he carefully packaged everything for mailing out the next day.

The movers were on hand early Friday to collect his personal effects, which they transported to the new, partially furnished (carpeting, window coverings, kitchen appliances) apartment, and were on their way well before five. Returned to the townhouse an hour later, Kimble made a final pass through every room, his emotions firmly in check as he inspected the house he and Helen had shared.

In the washroom-cum-back entry, he paused at sight of a small ceramic bowl propped drunkenly against the dusty baseboard. It stood just outside the footprint of where the washer had been. Frowning, Kimble bent over and retrieved the bowl, recognizing it the instant his fingers made contact. It had belonged to Quint, their one remaining cat.

Not for the first time, Kimble wondered what had happened to the animal, Helen's cherished pet. He had been incarcerated for days before it occurred to him to ask Gutherie if Quint was being cared for. The lawyer, harried with far more pressing concerns, had pursued only a superficial enquiry. The police had removed Quint to the Humane Society—which branch unknown. When Kimble had pressed the matter, he had been counseled to forget about the cat; its loss was insignificant in light of Helen's death and subsequent events. In all likelihood, Quint had already been adopted—or euthanized. In any case, he was no longer Kimble's concern.

Now, fifteen months later, stifling a tremor of anger, Kimble wiped the bowl clean of dust and added it to the odds and ends he had unearthed and intended to keep. There was not much. A pearl clip earring, an old school picture of Helen that had somehow found its way to the back of the shelf in the spare bedroom closet, and a love-note from her, tender and lovingly obscene, which he had taped to the inside of his medicine cabinet on New Year's Day 1989.

Kimble locked the townhouse up for the last time, then set out on foot for his apartment. There, after placing Quint's bowl beside the telephone on the kitchen-dining room divider, he decided he would continue catching up his medical readings, per Kathy Wahlund's instructions.

Over the next couple of days, Kimble's life took on a new pattern. He split his time between reading seemingly endless stacks of journals, sorting out his new living accommodations, and coming to terms with the searing reality of his once more drastically changed situation. Pretending to function as normally as possible, he attempted to fill every second of his existence with some activity that would distract his ever-active mind. It only worked in his waking hours; once asleep, the grim events of the past year would bubble miasmically to the surface. In those fitful hours before dawn, Kimble would escape the flawed comfort of his bed, and adjourn to the kitchen, where he would try out another recipe. It was a ritual he had developed in college for coping with a day's stubborn tension as well as chronic insomnia. During his marriage, rather than disturb Helen on the latest of nights, he would root inside the pantry until he found something sufficiently distracting. While she had never commented on Kimble's preferred therapy, or the "fruits" of his labors (unobtrusively occupying cellophane-wrapped space in the refrigerator), in no time at all she had undertaken to encourage its continuance. A new selection of possible ingredients had once a month appeared in the pantry among the replacements of the old.

Luckily, his nightmares allowed some surcease—or perhaps he was occasionally too exhausted to awaken and cater to them—otherwise, he might soon have been forced to purchase an oversized freezer to contain all of his baking efforts. He exaggerated; but in those first days on his own, it sometimes looked as though demand would never equal supply.

* * * * *

Kimble greeted the last week of March on the dirt running track of a high school located less than a mile from his apartment. It was a cold, wet morning, heavy with an all-pervasive mist.

The air was fresh if bitter, and the pavement glistened with dawn's pallid illumination. Having chosen the hour to avoid school-goers, Kimble encountered no one else, only the rhythmic slap-and-scrape of sole against gravel proclaiming his presence. His strength and endurance, persistently maintained throughout his confinement, had served him well from the instant of that terrible train wreck on the way to Menard State Prison. Now, after a week's recuperation, most of his aches and pains were gone.

His weekend had been full. The apartment bore witness to his efforts, each room organized to his liking, all personal effects hung, drawered, cabineted, and shelved. The few ornaments retained from his past—paintings, sketches, fabric art—now adorned his walls. The note from Helen was taped inside a new medicine cabinet overhanging the sink in a new bathroom. Quint's bowl remained on the countertop next to the telephone.

And on the refrigerator was a list he had begun in the blackest hours of Monday morning while waiting for a batch of double-chocolate brownies to bake. Kimble had dubbed it his "reparations" list. He had no idea if he could find everyone on it, though some of them appeared straightforward enough. The hospital in Jackson County, where he had made free use of treatment items for his lacerated flank, for example. The elderly male patient whose wallet, clothing, and breakfast he had absconded with was another matter altogether, as was the worker for whose overalls Kimble had exchanged his prison garb. The list presently numbered seventeen, including such "peripheral" items as rental and repair of the ambulance he had abandoned inside the viaduct over Barkley Dam, bulletproof glass doors for the county lockup, and one elevator skylight for the downtown Hilton. Things pilfered, things damaged, things used without permission. He hoped to make reimbursement for them all, whether he was legally liable or not. As yet he had said nothing to Gutherie, who would undoubtedly attempt to dissuade him if for no other reason than to avoid bringing attention to his sundry misdemeanors. But there was certainly money enough, and the doing would ease the sense of self-reproach that had increased with each act of wrongdoing he had committed.

After an hour's run, Kimble walked back to the apartment, his step lighter, his features less drawn than at the outset. The dream that had awakened him no longer had the power to unnerve; it was merely a curiosity, a manifestation of the mind's need to purge itself of life's accumulated strangenesses.

Maybe he would tell Kath about it, when next he saw her on Wednesday evening. His own execution, featuring formerly trusted friend and colleague Doctor Charles Nichols, who had appeared at the crucial moment, bearing the injection that would end Kimble's anguish and grief forever. Charles had smiled as he poised the tip of the needle over the IV tubing which fed harmless saline into Kimble's vein. Shackled to the chair, Kimble had been defenseless.

At the instant the needle should have penetrated the outer wall of the tubing, however, a large, blunt-fingered hand had reached out, torn the IV out of Kimble's arm, while its fellow, equally large and blunt-fingered, had turned the injector, still fixed in Charles' grasp, toward Nichols' own throat, where it had pierced the jugular vein under his left ear.

As Charles had crumpled to the floor, a look of mingled horror and outrage twisting his face, Kimble could only wait until his rescuer had turned back to him, sternly unrepentant yet ironically amused. _"It's over now,"_ Deputy US Marshal Samuel Gerard had said. To his chagrin, Kimble had begun to weep, great, unashamed tears spilling onto his cheeks, coursing wetly down his jaws, sliding under his collar, where they had puddled, cold and damning.

A wry smile had touched Gerard's mouth, softening it with understanding and something that might have been affection. A thumb had brusquely wiped away the wetness on Kimble's face before moving to his forearm, where it pressed hard to staunch the flow of blood. The hand had been strong and palpably warm, a living presence amidst the intangible shades of Kimble's dreamworld.

Strangely, Gerard had said, "You should be afraid of me."

More strangely still, Kimble had whispered, "I am."

And then he had awakened, disturbed and uncomfortable, and not knowing why.

Maybe he would tell Kath. More than likely, however, he would not.

* * * * *

_Spring_

The week progressed from foul to fair, clouds parting to reveal budding trees and greening lawns and sunshine warm enough to turn morning frost to steam rising in slow spirals.

During those days Kimble saw no one but Gutherie and the check-out clerk at the tiny Asian market he frequented. Less than a mile away, it made for a good excuse to get out of the apartment for an afternoon walk; and the clerk, a friendly young man, did not seem to recognize him, which pleased Kimble greatly.

Gutherie made a point of stopping by daily in the early hours on his way to the law firm. The topic of conversation was ever the same. Kimble's pardon. Gutherie had spoken with Deputy Gerard late the past Sunday evening. The deputy had urged him to wait another week before filing an appeal for his client. Unperturbed, Kimble had accepted this advice. He was no longer front-page news, though Gutherie continued to field the occasional journalistic call. Another week would present no hardship. And truth to tell, Kimble was rather enjoying this limbo-esque existence. He had food in the kitchen, heat in his apartment, cash to hand, his health, his sanity, and his freedom. There was not a single thing at the moment that he desired above any of those.

Wednesday, late in the day, he met Wahlund at the hospital. She handed him a couple of new journals before leading him out to the parking garage and her motorcycle. With Kimble balanced behind her, hands on her waist, she drove them to a nearby cafe.

"You are looking super," she commented with satisfaction once they were seated at a dimly lit corner table. "You're sleeping all right? Getting enough to eat?"

Kimble laughed. "I'm eating too much—and I'm getting more sleep than I used to when I had a practice."

"And you're reading?"

"I'm this far—" He stretched his hands wide apart, one above the other. "—through the box."

"Excellent." Wahlund's blue eyes glinted with excitement. "You ready to come back to work?"

"Sure. Barring a few minor snags like getting myself exonerated and passing my recertification exams."

"I talked with Gerard this afternoon."

Kimble gave her a sharp look.

"He's been busy, he said. Otherwise he would've told me yesterday to make sure you're ready by next _Monday_."

Heart suddenly moving at double-time, Kimble asked the first question that came into his head. "Why didn't he tell _me_?"

She spoke as though to a child. "Because he doesn't want too many people to know that he's doing all this to help you. Even if he were to be seen with you—"

" _Why_ is he going to all this trouble?" Kimble asked. "Did you ask him that?"

"Of course." She took his right hand in both of hers. "He thinks you've been through hell, and that you deserve a break. I got the impression that he thinks very highly of you."

A corner of Kimble's mouth tugged upward. "Huh. Walter told me pretty much the same thing. Don't know why you two find it so hard to believe."

Wahlund laughed. She squeezed Kimble's hand then let it go. "We don't. Now, what do you want to eat?"

"Eat!" he exclaimed. "Who can eat?!"

Thursday bled into Friday, Friday into the weekend. Kathy Wahlund, brimming with enthusiasm and good cheer, knocked on his door Sunday morning, bringing with her several large books, sample tests, and two blank notebooks. Sighing heavily, Kimble invited her inside. He was tired, having spent the hours between three and five in the kitchen refining his honey cornbread recipe. As the results cooled on the sideboard, he had drifted to sleep at the kitchen table, cheek lying on a page filled with illustrations detailing the repair of subclavian arteries damaged by secondary missile penetration.

"God, Kath," he moaned in greeting. "It's only seven!"

"Eight. Time change, remember? And it's got to be done. Let's dive in; see how far we get. Okay?"

Though he would have loved to resent Wahlund's bullying tactics, Kimble knew that she had only his well-being in mind. So, acceding with a gruesome half-smile, he sat with her at the dining room table, and proceeded to go over the killing, three-part, three-day certification exam, one question at a time. The picture window overlooking the street was open, permitting sweet, spring-scented air to enter. Unseasonably warm, the day passed quickly.

Kimble prepared a late afternoon meal of stir-fried vegetables and chicken slivers, followed by cornbread and coffee. Wahlund ate with a healthy appetite and frequent, noisy exclamations regarding his culinary efforts. She laughed knowingly when dessert was served, having remembered Kimble's predilection for spending his pre-dawn hours in the kitchen.

Later, after she was gone, the apartment seemed unnaturally quiet, not even the normal creaks and snaps of settling wood and plaster diverting the stillness. When the refrigerator kicked on, Kimble lowered the journal he was reading in the adjoining living room and paused to listen. Curious, he thought, how mutable the quality of quiet could be. With Helen, it had always been comfortable, unalarming, scarcely noticed, whether they had been together, or she in her office and he in his study. In jail, it had existed only as a lessening of an ever-present cataract of sound—generated by people, things, and equipment.

Here and now, it was as hushed as the grave.

Kimble lifted the journal and resumed reading.

* * * * *

Resolutely wakened by his internal clock, Kimble ignored the LED precision of his watch—he hated the bi-annual time change, especially the one in spring—and rose to run alone under drizzly skies leaden as much with cloud cover as darkness. Jogging home through gathering puddles, it struck him that this new life of his was immensely healing, lacking as it did all manner of strife. Timing, too, was a factor. Had he himself been the deciding force behind obtaining his release, he would have chosen no other season in which to do so. Spring—the vernal equinox only days past—conspired with him in rebirth.

It seemed on occasion, however, the rebirth of a luckless crocus unfolding its petals for the first time on the eve of an over-affectionate snowfall—existence without the promise of continuation. Yet fifteen months in prison had prepared him for such a future as nothing else could have done. In fact he wondered sometimes how he would have dealt with the ordeal of Helen's death if, unsuspected of murder, he had been free to carry on his life within mere hours and days of her dying rather than many months of brooding and self-pity, and ultimately, resignation and acceptance.

With the focus of his life destroyed by a blow to the head and a freely bleeding gunshot wound, Kimble had been slow to comprehend the implications of the obscenely abrupt police interrogation; shortly thereafter, formal charges had left him confused and defensive. Helen, his Helen, had been delivered to the county coroner rather than their pre-chosen mortuary; her remains had eventually been disposed of according to their wishes—but without Kimble in attendance. His grief had been ignored; worse, it had been reviled. Believed a killer, his most basic emotions had been cause for scorn.

Trotting up to his apartment building, caught in the warp and weft of vestigial anger and pain, he did not at first take note of the familiar vehicle parked alongside the curb. As he loped past, a nasal voice called out to him. "Richard!"

Kimble let go of the iron railing which led up to the front entrance. Running in place, he came round, searching out the owner of that well-known voice.

"There you are, Walter." The lawyer stood beside the driver's door. Kimble took in the man's state of unkemptness and air of thrumming excitement. Uneasily, he remarked, "Kind of early, even for you, isn't it? What's wrong?"

Gutherie came up to him, eyes wide."You know, I really didn't think he could do it. I really didn't think it was possible!"

"Walter—?"

A large manila envelope was thrust into his hands. "Your pardon. Delivered to my house at dawn. Woke me up out of a dead sleep."

"My—?"

"This is it, Richard! Just like Deputy Gerard promised. The whole kit and caboodle."

A multi-legged shiver raced down Kimble's spine. "Pardon?" he breathed. The plainness of the envelope stood in sharp contrast to the miracle it contained. He tried to draw away. "The charges?"

"Dropped. From the time of Helen's death to the moment of your recapture. And you were pardoned. It isn't the same as having the conviction expunged, but it's as good as we can get without a lot more court time." He pushed harder as Kimble made no effort to take the envelope. "It's _yours_. Take it."

Gingerly, Kimble obeyed. "You've looked everything over?"

"Every single word. That's why it's taken me till now to get here. Richard, this sort of thing just doesn't happen."

Kimble opened his mouth; nothing came out.

"Go inside. Take a shower. Read it yourself. I have a court date; gotta run. Is this afternoon, say three o'clock, good for you?"

Bereft of language, Kimble made a noncommittal gesture with head and hands.

"Press conference," Gutherie explained. They'll want to speak with you."

That provoked him to speech. "Again?" Kimble objected. "We just—"

"Take my word for it, this will be all over the place; newspapers, radio, television, satellite. You need to strike first. Show that you've got nothing to hide."

As Gutherie spoke, Kimble began to register the reality of the moment. _He had been absolved. Or as close as he would ever get._ "It's over?" he whispered.

"Except for the press conference," Gutherie rejoined assuringly, "yes. I'll call you later this morning, after you've had a chance to take it all in."

As the lawyer clambered into his car, Kimble reflexively withdrew to the concrete stair, clutching his prize in both hands.

"'Bye, Richard. And congratulations!"

The Cadillac pulled away from the curb into the empty street. A couple of very young schoolchildren waved from the opposite sidewalk; they broke into gap-toothed grins when Gutherie tapped his horn. The car disappeared round the corner.

Blinking hard, Kimble navigated the steps into the building, head ducked forward lest he encounter any of his neighbors. He reached his apartment unaccosted, entered, and locked the door behind him. Then he went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker, the mug warming his hands as he carried it through to the dining room table where he slowly sat down.

His hands trembled. He could scarcely see. He forced down a large swallow of coffee, wincing at its blistering heat. While tongue, esophagus, and stomach silently but indignantly protested, he opened the envelope and drew out a sheaf of papers. The first was the official pardon, bearing the seal and signature of the Governor of Illinois. Kimble dashed a balled fist across his eyes and began to examine the document more clearly. It said in weighty legalese everything Gutherie had already related. Kimble read it from beginning to end, then reread it, followed by all of the documents that had detailed his conviction. The dropping of pending charges was contained in a very few pages.

An intense weariness closed around him, like a smothering fall of ash. He was staring blankly out of the picture window when the phone rang. Hesitant for fear it might be the press, Kimble answered curtly. "Yes?"

"Hey, Richard!" It was Wahlund, her voice bubbling with elation. "I'm so happy for you!"

"You … know?"

"It was just on the news. The governor announced it. Richard, _congratulations_!"

"He—" Gutherie must have accepted the pardon for him. Kimble took a deep breath. "Thanks, Kath. It's kind of amazing, isn't it?"

"Lourdes stuff, I'd say," Wahlund agreed. "Think about where you want to go to celebrate—my treat. I'll call later this afternoon. And, if you don't want to, no problem."

"I'll want to," Kimble said firmly. "Maybe I'll be able to believe it by then."

"I'll see that you do. We'll talk later."

After hanging up the phone, Kimble realized he was laughing. The sound of it started at the bottom of his chest and worked its way upward, growing in timbre as it spilled out of his mouth. He laughed as he took himself to the bathroom; laughed as he stripped to the skin and stepped under hot, pelting jets of water; and laughed as he leaned back against the shower stall wall, tears mingling with soap and water, streaming down his body, escaping into the drain.

He was no longer a criminal, but a _free and fully pardoned_ man.

It was beyond believing.

* * * * *

Limbo, Kimble decided after a week of frenetic activity, had its attractions—among them profound quiet and a notable lack of urgency. Alternatively, he had promised himself to begin life anew, and within a week's time, he had accomplished that goal—at least, by Friday, he stood once more on the threshold.

Now an old hand at press conferences, Kimble was forthright but dispassionate in front of the media in all their myriad forms. To the question (repeated more than once) whether his case had received special treatment, he answered quite honestly that the governor's action had been hoped for—what wrongfully convicted person would not desire such intervention?—but completely unexpected. Gerard's name never once came up nor did Kimble imagine that the deputy would want it to. Afterward, however, when he mentioned to Gutherie that he would like to personally thank Samuel Gerard for his efforts on his behalf, Gutherie strenuously argued against any and all such action. Although Gerard had done nothing incorrect, it was best that there be no connection between them; nor, for the governor's benefit, as well as Gerard's, should there be any question of the governor not having acted alone. In the end, Kimble bowed to Gutherie's reasoning—albeit with some reluctance.

The next day, with Gutherie acting as escort, Kimble visited the local Department of Motor Vehicles to petition the State of Illinois for a new driver's license. His own having been revoked upon his conviction, it was necessary that he take both the written and driving exams. An afternoon was devoted to this enterprise and upon its successful culmination, Kimble took on the role of chauffeur for the drive back home.

As luck would have it—and in Kimble's case, his luck had taken a dramatic turn for the better—the NBME certification exams were being held that very Wednesday. Thanks to Wahlund, not only was he preregistered, but his transcripts, proof of previous practice, and the appropriate forms, typed in triplicate, had already been filed. After two evenings of intensive cramming, Kimble presented himself before a panel of his peers. The gruelingly complete three-part, three-day testing went well; late on Friday, a message awaited him on his answering machine upon his return from the market. His license would be restored.

The following evening, Saturday, with Kath Wahlund at his side, Kimble celebrated his pardon, the new driver's license, his restored medical license, the call from Chicago Memorial Hospital to resume his surgeon duties Monday morning, and the fact that his face had not adorned the front page of any newspaper for four days. The dinner theatre they chose featured Wahlund's nephew, a talented young actor, in performance in a farcical production of _Noises Off_. Kimble enjoyed the play as heartily as his very good meal. Wahlund was, as always, charming, provocative company, his equal in all ways, his true and dear friend. Sometime between the witching hour and dawn, he dropped her off at her apartment, expressing all his gratitude and affection in a long, tender hug outside her door.

And on the way home, for the first time since his release, he drove to the cemetery where Helen was buried. He found his way amidst the dark and a soft, cold rain, knowing precisely where she would be, having visualized the iron-fenced plot for over fifteen months.

His memory held true. She had been buried next to her father, the small granite marker simply and without ostentation proclaiming her presence. Fondest of him, and having literally to choose a side next to one of her parents, she had taken his.

A breeze came up, its swift, impersonal embrace swirling round him, soft and sinuous as a silk scarf, leaving a small uprising of shivers as it passed. Yet Kimble stayed on, huddled inside his jacket, alone in this quiet, untroubled place.

Not one to believe in the concept of souls, much less an afterlife, he nevertheless took a certain comfort at Helen's grave. He realized that more than time and death separated him from the woman he had cherished and loved above all others. A vast burden of unpleasant experience, a new comprehension of the world, and most of all a sense of profound aloneness. He had known none of these while Helen lived.

Tomorrow—today, now—was Easter Sunday. Long a lapsed Catholic, Kimble had nonetheless through the years adhered to the notion that Easter marked the proper start of spring. At the end of an achingly cold and withering eternity, it seemed that winter's end was in sight at last.

* * * * * 

In the weeks that followed, time became insignificant, a measure of something that held no meaning for a doctor working round the clock in order to re-establish himself. His schedule would have intimidated a man twenty years his junior. But for Richard Kimble it offered focus, satisfaction, and a modicum of peace.

Days, Kimble worked the surgical wards, providing instruction and back-up for his resident Lydia Akbari. She was young, proficient, sensible, and borderline brilliant. It had been years since Kimble had been strapped with a resident, but he took a certain delight in the woman's uncommon ability mated as it was to a curiously fatalistic/optimistic outlook on the world. At their first meeting, she had brought up his criminal past, dismissed it with an unpretty expletive, and promised to be the best resident ever assigned to him. So far she had more than kept her word.

Others were less direct in their opinions concerning his incarceration and subsequent pardon—yet managed to make their feelings very clear indeed. Though they said nothing outright, their uneasiness, their sidelong looks, their pinched expressions in his presence all spoke as eloquently as whole, bluntly worded sentences. Dealing with such people was a constant trial, but Kimble was learning how. He carried on as he always had. Relaxed, polite, professional, insistently scrupulous and thorough in all aspects of his work.

Evenings, for want of anything more demanding to do—and rather than go home—Kimble holed up in his office to keep up with his readings. He also made it known that he could be called upon at any time should his expertise be required. The overworked emergency staff had taken his offer to heart; within the first two weeks, Kimble had assisted at, or taken on whole, ten cases—in addition to his other patients.

Working ten- to sixteen-hour days left little time for melancholy. He slept well, if not at length, rising before the dawn three days a week in order to put in five miles at the high school running track. It was a routine that suited him for the moment. Eat, work, sleep, exercise. Nothing else intruded, except for dreams, and those only occasionally. In any case, a bout in the kitchen generally took care of that.

Until the last week of April.

* * * * *

Kimble was lounging in his office, drinking caffeine-saturated coffee and reading the latest issue of LANCET when the call came through. His presence was requested in Operating Room Four immediately. A patient presenting with gunshot wounds had just arrived.

Within moments Kimble strode into the operating room, freshly scrubbed, gowned, and gloved. One of the few surgical nurses who remembered him from before was on hand to assist; she welcomed him with a smile and a wink. Akbari, who was on call this month, was there as well. She acknowledged his arrival with a curt, "Doctor."

Stevens, the attending physician, explained the patient's condition without embroidery. A competent surgeon himself, he nevertheless had determined that there was enough trauma to warrant Kimble's involvement. A cursory examination led Kimble to entirely agree.

For the next three hours, they struggled to first stabilize the shooting victim, then painstakingly repair his injuries. In Kimble's estimation, Akbari passed beyond borderline brilliant to just plain brilliant when she suspected a hitherto unnoticed nick in the underside of the upper innominate vein, temporarily dammed by a blood tamponade, and took immediate action to safeguard against a possible air embolism. The cause was a tiny piece of clavicle which, sheared off by the impact of the bullet, had turned into a nearly lethal secondary missile.

Afterward, while watching Akbari close the two wounds deemed clean enough for suturing, Kimble questioned Stevens about the patient.

"He's an escapee from the Big House; a fugitive," Victor Morgan, the anesthesiologist interposed. "Maybe you'll know him when you see his face." He was smiling like a shark. All teeth, no joke.

Having encountered Morgan's antipathy before, Kimble easily ignored him. "Who brought him in?"

"Some old friends of yours proba—"

Stevens cut the anesthesiologist off. "Thank you, Dr. Morgan. Your work was acceptable, as always." The senior doctor's condescending tone carried a sting of its own.

Morgan dropped his gaze, conspicuously scanning the patient's read-outs. Stevens, a powerful man at CMH, was known to indulge in reprisal in the face of insolence; those who wished to avoid disfavor thought twice before crossing him.

Later, in the scrub room, Stevens glanced pointedly across at Kimble. "Morgan can't help himself; he's a dickhead … sometimes."

"Doesn't matter." Kimble rinsed his hands and began to wipe them dry.

"Right. Look, Richard, I've got a favor to ask."

"Yeah?"

"This patient—I know you're busy—but will you take him on?"

Kimble raised his brows. He had no particular desire to do as Stevens asked—especially if Morgan was right and 'some old friends of his'—Kelly and Rosetti?—were indeed involved.

"It's just that I'd arranged to take the next few days off. Of course I can hand him over to Demby; he's covering for me. But he hasn't got your experience, and this case could turn out to be a little difficult."

"Paul—"

"And that way, Akbari can stay with him, too. She's pretty good, isn't she? He'd be good experience for her."

Tossing his apron and cap into the hamper, Kimble summoned up a weary smile. "Cut the hard sell. I'll do it."

"Thanks, Richard. I won't forget it."

"No big deal. By the way, are you going to talk to the people who brought this guy in?"

"I'll leave that to you. Nancy said they're in the waiting room."

"Here or downstairs?"

"Here."

Kimble finger-combed his hair, a frisson of apprehension tightening his insides. He grimaced at the sensation, hating the uncertainty mingled with insecurity that plucked like a hungry beak at his confidence. He tucked his hands into his pockets, pushing through the swinging doors that led to the outer corridor. Without allowing himself an instant's pause, he entered the waiting suite; momentum carried him forward when instinct would have brought him to a complete halt.

Three people turned at the sound of his approach, and Kimble recognized all three of them. Not Rosetti and Kelly, but rather, Deputy US Marshal Samuel Gerard and two of his assistant deputies, Poole and Newman.

"Dr. Kimble." There was a note of surprise in Gerard's voice. He took a step forward, hand extended. "How are you, doctor?"

"Deputy Gerard." Kimble accepted the other man's hand, finding it larger than his own and very powerful. He shook it firmly, hoping the strength of his own grip would conceal the slight tremor in his fingers. "I'm fine, thank you," he said with careful courtesy. The sight of Gerard, lean, tall, simply but perfectly appareled, with eyes as black as the far side of the moon, was quite unnerving. "Is that your handiwork in there?"

"'Fraid so. How is he?"

Jamming his hands back into his pockets, Kimble held his ground, though he would have felt more comfortable with the width of the room between them. "Looks like he'll live to serve out his sentence."

Gerard nodded, his face blank. A shuffling motion from the young Newman caught Kimble's attention. Only the woman Poole would meet his gaze, and her eyes were coldly fixed.

"Oh. He's slated for execution, is that it?" Kimble guessed softly.

Gerard inclined his head. "Next month."

Several emotions fused into one white-hot burst of outrage. Jaws clamped tightly together, Kimble murmured, "Bit ironic stitching him back up, just so you can kill him at your convenience."

"We are not executioners," Gerard said.

"Don't waste your sympathy on Gehti, doc," Poole advised him sharply. "He wasn't what you'd call a nice man."

Before Kimble could argue, Newman added, "Raped and murdered his sixty-seven-year old mother in front of his eighty-year old father. His old man was paralyzed from a stroke and couldn't do a thing but watch."

"Not even defend himself when Gehti started in on _him_ ," Poole finished.

"And you're certain—without a doubt—that the man in there did all that?" Kimble insisted.

Very quietly, Gerard replied, "That's not our job, Richard. But in this case, yes, we are. Without a doubt."

Newman explained, "He videotaped the whole thing."

"Half the jurors lost their cookies," Poole threw in. "The place smelled like bleach for days afterward, or so we were told."

Features perfectly smooth, Gerard concluded, "As Poole said, he _wasn't_ a nice man."

Bludgeoned into silence, it took Kimble a moment to re-order his thoughts. "Apparently not," he said. Stevens would owe him for this. "It'll be at least a week before you can move him to prison facilities," he explained in his most professional manner. "He's my patient until then. So if you have any questions—?"

Gerard gave his ear a tug. "I'm assigning one of my people to stay with him at all times."

"A guard?" Kimble thought about it. "He'll be in ICU until tomorrow. Possibly longer."

"Tell my people where they can set up. It has to be right outside wherever he's kept."

The urge to refuse was annoyingly intense. Yet, Kimble had dealt with criminal patients before; the procedure as Gerard had outlined it was standard. He had no grounds for being obstructive— _but why did it have to be Gerard?_ "Lydia Akbari is my resident. She'll be assisting me in Gehti's case. Please let one or the other of us know who will be on station—" He couldn't bring himself to say on guard. "—at all times."

"Poole will see to that—if the roster deviates from tonight." The blandness of Gerard's words belied a steely determination.

"Thank you," Kimble said. He dredged up a polite smile. "So, which of you is the lucky one?"

Newman looked across at Gerard. "Me."

"You," Gerard agreed. "Biggs'll take over first thing tomorrow. You'll be back here by eleven tomorrow night."

"Right." Newman turned toward Kimble, his wry expression leaving no doubt as to his opinion of the situation.

"Come with me, then." Kimble started for the door. As he took hold of the handle and gave it a turn, Gerard called after him, "Good to see you, Richard. Too bad it couldn't have been under better circumstances."

Only then did Kimble manage to recall that it was _this_ man who had engineered his freedom. He owed Gerard far more than token politesse. Chastened right down to the molecules in his toenails, he slowly wheeled round. "Thank you, Sam," he said with all sincerity, "for everything."

Gerard regarded him steadily. With the faintest hint of a smile, he replied, "My pleasure."

* * * * *

Early the following morning, well before there was bird song outside his window, Kimble sat at the dining room table under the small overhanging chandelier of bright candle-flame bulbs, staring dully at the unread article in LANCET while he waited for a batch of blueberry muffins to finish baking.

Roused from sleep against his will, he had considered returning to the hospital to check on Gehti. A moment's reflection had convinced him that he must not allow night phantoms to control his life—no matter how persuasive or seemingly reasonable they might be.

This time it had been Helen, the lustre of life fading from her eyes as she lay in his arms, and Gerard, his features as impersonal and wintry as a glacier, standing over them both. Kimble had raised his head, knowing that Gerard meant to kill him, that Helen was already dead, and that nothing else mattered. He was gravely prepared to face his executioner. Instead, a slight frown marking the deputy's face, Gerard had placed a hand on Kimble's head, molding it to his skull. Very gently, the hand had drifted downward until it cupped Kimble's cheek and jaw, the thumb, blunt and rough-surfaced, unhurriedly tracing the shape of his mouth.

And there Kimble had come fully awake, the urge to encourage that soothing, incorporeal touch, still warm upon his lips and face, at odds with the shock that such an unlikely image, such an uncommon action should take form in his mind—even his unconscious mind—at all.

* * * * *

After a hard, long run, Kimble showered, dressed, forced down a piece of toast, and left for the hospital. Akbari was already signed in, patiently awaiting his arrival. They went through the wards, discussing their varied cases, leaving Gehti for last. Outside ICU they met the deputy charged with the daytime guard-duty. A large man, moustached and sour-faced, he clearly wished to be elsewhere.

"Doc," he said, mouth twisting into a semblance of congeniality.

"Biggs, isn't it?" Kimble said.

The deputy's brows went up. "You remember."

"Are you stuck here all day?"

The burly deputy jabbed a thumb toward the door. "I'm on seven to six from now until Gehti checks out. Would've been easier if you'd let him croak."

At Kimble's side, Akbari coughed softly. "You might have told us that before we operated," she said.

Biggs eyed her measuringly. "Didn't think it would've made any difference."

"It wouldn't've." She pushed past him.

Kimble merely shook his head and joined her. Their patient lay in one of the glass-enclosed ICU stalls, his body connected to several monitoring devices as well as an array of drainage tubes and a ventilator. They examined his read-outs, his chart; noted his color, skin-tone; Kimble commented on the efficiency and aesthetic appeal of Akbari's stitching. The fugitive's wounds were clean and tidy, and there were no signs of internal bleeding or infectious process.

When Kimble stepped back, he found the patient watching him. "Hello," he said. "I'm Dr. Kimble; this is Dr. Akbari. How are you feeling?"

Restricted by the oxygen mask strapped tightly to his skull, Gehti responded with the slightest of nods. Then his eyes narrowed and he stared hard up at the ceiling. His expression changed from watchful to incredulous to entertained. Visible through the clear plastic, a wraithlike smile hovered about his lips.

"We'll be back later," Akbari informed him. Without a glance for Kimble, she exited the stall, holding the door for him to accompany her. Biggs was watching them, hand under his jacket.

"Only us," Akbari said steadyingly. "Have you had any coffee?"

Slowly sitting back in his chair, Biggs tugged at his jacket. "No."

"I'll ask one of the nurses to bring you a cup. Will black do?"

"Yeah. That's fine."

As Akbari strode away, she murmured over her shoulder, "You're welcome."

Scowling uncertainly, Biggs raised his head, watching Kimble scribble notes in his daily planner. "Is she always like that?"

"Always," Kimble replied distractedly. With a little wave, he departed also, folding his notebook and tucking it into his breast-pocket as he went.

The day proceeded without incident. Taking advantage of the lull, Kimble returned home in the afternoon to collect some odds and ends to occupy his evening. A gentle spring shower splashed down upon the upturned faces of daffodils and hyacinth; patches of dewy green bloomed amidst the mini-wastelands of frost-burned lawns. It was the sort of day to take comfort in. Quiet with the steady patter of rain; cool, but lacking the rumbustious spirit of March; and, with all things freshly washed, a joy for the eyes and heart.

Back in his office, Kimble settled down with a magazine and a cup of scalding, sweet cocoa. Warmth, rekindled both inside and out, conspired against him, and before he knew it, he had been lured down into an unlooked-for eddy of sleep, accumulated exhaustion and a lingering disquiet leaving him incapable of resisting the undertow.

The smell of strong, recently brewed coffee brought him back to the surface with a tender nudge. Leaning over the end of his desk, Akbari held a steaming mug just beneath his nose. He stared at her with wide, recognitionless eyes for a brief moment. Then his surroundings loomed into focus, and everything made sense once more.

"It's nearly ten o'clock, doctor. I'd like to take a last look at Gehti before I leave. Will you come with me?"

Kimble roughly rubbed his face with both hands, then took the proffered mug. "Of course." He gave his watch a glance. It really was that late. He took a long pull on his drink. Heat and caffeine hit his stomach like a mini-explosion.

"It's been a quiet day," Akbari said, answering Kimble's unvoiced question. "I saw you come in here; stopped by a while after that and noticed you'd fallen asleep. Told everyone to come through me if they needed you. Like I said, it's been quiet." One corner of her mouth curved into a knowing grin. "How's the back?"

"Considering how long I've been here, better than it deserves." He gulped the last of the coffee, hoping the full force of its restorative effect would kick in very soon.

They made their way through fluorescent-bright corridors until they reached ICU, which was lit like a beacon. Deputy Newman, curly blonde hair hanging loose on the back of his neck, alerted at their approach. He nodded politely. "Dr. Akbari, Dr. Kimble."

"Deputy Newman," Akbari replied solemnly. "Has he tried to break out yet?"

"I think he means to wait till the rain stops," Newman replied seriously. He and Akbari broke into simultaneous grins. "With all those tubes and wires hooked up to him, he'd be an idiot to try."

"Some people find that difficult to believe," Kimble noted morosely. He led the way into Gehti's stall, then repeated the morning's examination. Their prisoner-patient was asleep this time and did not stir despite Kimble's prodding scrutiny.

"Gunshot wounds aren't always so quick to heal," Kimble remarked. He stripped off his gloves and dropped them into the biohazard bin.

"The five days aren't up yet."

"No, that's true." His mask joined the gloves. "But unless something else turns up, it looks like we're going to be lucky."

Stepping into the corridor, Kimble caught Newman mid-yawn. "You here till dawn again?"

"Yep."

Making a soft tsking noise, Kimble ambled down the corridor, Akbari at his side.

"What about you, doctor?" Akbari asked. "Are you here till dawn again, too?"

"Nope." Kimble opened the door that gave access to the stairwell. "Good night, Lydia."

Bundled in his parka and carrying the old but richly expensive leather case Helen had purchased for him many years ago, Kimble left his office, only to return to the Intensive Care Unit a very few minutes later. He stopped at the nurses' station where he filled a mug with coffee. Pocketing a couple of packets each of sugar and powdered cream, he strolled down the corridor to the patient area, finding Newman anticipating his appearance through the doorway. A good watchdog, was Newman.

Kimble raised the coffee like a white flag. Under the deputy's bemused blue gaze, Kimble lay claim to the battered end table which stood next to the chair, and upon it set the mug and the four small packets of sugar and cream. Then he opened his case to reveal a plastic bag containing three of the morning's blueberry muffins. These he placed on the table as well, remarking off-handedly, "There were a few left over."

Having noted the involuntary dilation of pupils at sight of the muffins, Kimble knew they would not be refused. "Enjoy. Good night, deputy."

"I— Thank you." Then, to Kimble's receding back, Newman called softly, "Good night, Dr. Kimble."

* * * * *

The weather cleared and the temperature rose. Kimble saw little of the sun, spending the next two days from dawn to well past dusk in the confines of the hospital. Gehti was taken off the ventilator two days after his surgery. Though he seemed to appreciate the relief of breathing unmasked, he remained turned inward, responding when spoken to but initiating no conversation on his own.

 _Like me._ The comparison was inescapable. The circumstances dictating their incarceration had been very different, but the similarities of the experience of confinement could not be denied. Kimble had refrained from further knowledge of Gehti's case; not so Akbari, who seemed insatiable for details of his crimes. These, once gleaned from Newman and Biggs, she readily shared with other residents when Kimble was not around. It had been his misfortune, however, to walk in on more than one conversation featuring the grisly specifics of Gehti's long and disagreeable criminal history.

Kimble made arrangements to meet with Wahlund for lunch on Thursday. Since returning to work, he had seen little of her, their hectic schedules often interfering in their attempts to get together. For the most part, Wahlund was as much a workaholic as he—though that had not always been true of Kimble.

Arriving at the cafeteria a few minutes after noon, Wahlund collected her choices then threaded her way through the spinney of tables and chairs to the corner Kimble had lucked upon and where he now waited, watching. He grinned lazily at her approach, more pleased to see her than he was ready to admit.

Wahlund sat down, arranged her dishes, then removed the empty tray to the nearest unused table before collapsing in her chair. She laid a hand on Kimble's forearm. Squeezing it lightly, she commented, "You look like a man who's been doing a lot of baking."

Seduced into a slow, self-mocking smile, Kimble admitted, "Muffins yesterday, lemon bars this morning."

"Well, you're not eating enough of them yourself by the look of you. You're losing weight, aren't you?"

"Yes, Kath," Kimble said, "but not that much."

"What happened?"

Picking up his fork and waving it with intent over his turkey pot pie, Kimble said simply, "Deputy Gerard showed up Tuesday night."

Wahlund let out a little gasp. "Why?"

"He—or one of his people—shot an escaped convict. Stevens asked me to help during the surgery. I think," he muttered blackly, "that he meant for me to take the case all along."

"Oh, Richard!" Wahlund clucked sympathetically. "What did you say to him? Gerard, I mean."

Kimble laughed without humor. "After taking him to task for shooting the guy, I was told that my new patient was a rotten son of a bitch—really rotten, Kath—and _then_ I remembered to thank him for going to the bother of obtaining my pardon. Didn't go into specifics—Gutherie thought I might cause him trouble if the wrong people know about it—so I just said, 'thank you.'"

Biting back a smile, Wahlund asked, "And, what did Gerard say to you in return?"

"What else?" Kimble stabbed his fork into the pastry, releasing a volcano—like plume of steam. "'My pleasure.'"

Wahlund gave him a commiserative pat on the arm. "At least his mother raised him to be polite." She cut into her lasagna. "Has he been back since?"

"No. He left a couple of deputies to guard Gehti's room morning and night. They trade off, but there's always one of them there." Mashing up his pie, he gave a soft snort. "It's crazy. Imagine it, Kath. We had to repair the left innominate and subclavian veins, opened the sternum—"

"Drainage tubes, ventilator, catheters, the works, right?"

"Right. He's drugged to the teeth for the pain—and _they_ think this guy is going to get up and walk out."

"Hm. You know as well as I do, though, that he's the kind who could. I read about him in the paper. He's got more than a couple of screws loose. A real wing-nut."

Kimble subsided. "Yeah, I know. Even though it's been a while since I read anything other than those damn journals you gave me. Not to mention the newest issues that turn up on my desk every day."

"You're working yourself pretty hard," she remarked.

Chewing with industry, Kimble mumbled, "It won't last. Just till I've readjusted. There's so much to get used to; so much I need to catch up."

"Both at home and at work. Have you considered taking a job somewhere else? You know, not just another hospital in Chicago, or even Illinois, for that matter. But another city, another state?" She sighed. "Not that I want you to, of course."

"Sure, I've thought about it. And maybe someday I will." He shifted a single shoulder in an abbreviated shrug. "But right now I have to deal with it. All of it." A self-conscious smile twitched across his lips. "It's okay, Kath. I'm managing. Really."

Her eyes were gentle with understanding, taking in every telltale line and shadow in Kimble's face. "Yes, of course you are. I know you'll be all right, Richard."

"Besides, who'd bake lemon bars for you if I left?"

Wahlund grinned, shaking her head at him. "There is that."

Kimble patted his coat pocket and gave her a wink. "Dessert."

* * * * *

There was a lemon bar for Newman that night, too. "Thanks, doc!" the deputy exclaimed at sight of it. "Akbari says you do all this baking yourself. True?"

"She said that?"

Mouth already full, the deputy nodded.

"Well, yeah. Good self-sufficiency training. In fact, I'm thinking of making it part of the residency program."

Newman broke into a skeptical smile. He was, Kimble thought, very young—seemingly too young for his chosen profession. "Huh! Well—If that's true, no way is Akbari going to pass."

"Says who?" It was Akbari, rounding the corner into ICU. "And what won't I pass?"

"Says me." He flaunted the remains of his lemon bar at her. "You any good at this kind of thing? Baking, I mean?"

"No, I'm not," the resident replied coolly. "Who has time?"

With a tip of the head, Newman blithely gave Kimble away.

"Oh." Akbari cast a quick glance Kimble's way.

"She said it's therapy. Cheaper and less irritating than a psychiatrist."

"Did she?" For a second, Kimble could see the whites of Akbari's eyes; he suspected that a lecture on professional discretion would not be necessary. " _Some_ people might call it a hobby—better yet, a talent," he defended himself good-naturedly.

"A hobby." Newman considered this pronouncement for all of two seconds. Raising the remains of the lemon bar to an inch or so in front of his face, he announced, "A hobby by any other name would taste as sweet."

Kimble winced.

"Shakespeare?" Akbari blurted disbelievingly.

Newman's cheeks turned a soft pink. "Blame Sam. He comes out with that kind of stuff all the time."

It was nearly ten when they had completed their review of Gehti's condition, ongoing progress, and future treatment. Kimble left Akbari with Newman, noting that they fell into amicable conversation as soon as he had bade them both good night.

Outside, eyes turned heavenward, he breathed deeply of the fresh, dew-laden air, courting the cool breeze that glanced across his face and ruffled his hair. The sky overhead was a huge vault layered with blackness upon blackness penetrated here and there by immensely deep and slender wells of light.

Maybe tonight he would sleep—the weather was perfect for it. If not—well, there was a recipe for double-fudge, caramel brownies he had yet to try. A savage smile contorted his mouth. His eccentric "hobby" must be the talk of the hospital.

Kimble's real estate agent had left a message on his telephone answering machine. She had a firm offer from a young couple who were keenly interested in the townhouse. It was essential that he contact her as soon as he could.

The clock read eleven-fifteen, but he decided to risk a call-back. If the agent did not wish to be bothered, _her_ machine would answer. In fact it was the agent herself who picked up, her voice flushed with excitement upon hearing the name of her caller.

"It's an excellent offer, Dr. Kimble, above the market, but well in line with the property itself." She gave him the figure, making no attempt to conceal her satisfaction.

"Wow."

"You would like me to accept it, then?"

"You're convinced they can get financing?"

"Oh, my no! They have _cash_ , doctor."

"Cash."

As though requested, she began to reel off some particulars concerning the couple involved, names Kimble distantly recognized from Helen's former circle of friends. She concluded with, "Shall I fax the formal offer to your office in the morning?"

"No. Ah. It's sort of frowned upon." In fact, the fax machines ran day and night with seldom a pause. Kimble suggested a mid-morning home delivery to ensure the packet would be waiting for him when he stopped in at noon or thereabouts. Providing he could work in a few minutes later in his day to review the material, he would be able to provide a response by late evening.

The agent assured him all would be done to suit his convenience. Then: "It's overdue, I know, but I do wish to congratulate you on your pardon. I should have said something weeks ago, but there's been no—"

At that moment, the downstairs buzzer sounded. "It's kind of you to say so," Kimble said quickly. The buzzer went off again, setting his teeth on edge. "Please, you'll have to excuse me. Someone's at the door."

The agent rang off at once. Kimble went to the intercom and depressed the button. "Yes?"

"Dr. Kimble." The voice was shockingly familiar. "It's Sam Gerard. May I come up?"

For one instant—less than an instant, really—Kimble's thoughts were rooted each in their place. Then they were bounding free, like hares flushed out of the undergrowth by a hunter's hound. "I—" _What could Gerard want with him now?_ He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Sure. Push."

Not daring to contemplate the purpose for this visit, Kimble went to the entry foyer and waited there until a confident tattoo sounded at his door. Consciously breathing in and out, he paused just long enough to gird himself for whatever was to come, then undid the locks and swung open the door.

"Hello, doctor."

"Deputy." Gerard had changed little since Kimble had seen him last. His features were as harsh and distinctive as ever—and too well remembered for Kimble's peace of mind. "What brings you here?" he asked politely.

"Not what you think," Gerard said pleasantly, "if you think you're in trouble. May I come in?"

The very sound of the deputy's voice raised the hair on the back of Kimble's neck. It was difficult to shift gears, to forget all the ugly things that had gone before. Rationally, Kimble knew that he was in this man's debt for far more than he could ever repay; emotionally, his wounds had yet to heal—Gerard's mere presence filled him with an immense disquiet. Civility, however, prevailed. "Why not?" Kimble motioned him toward the inside corridor. "Please, come in."

"Thank you." Hesitating, Gerard held up a large, plain white styrofoam container that despite its size, Kimble had failed to notice. "I've brought dinner."

"Dinner?"

Impervious to the dismay in Kimble's voice, Gerard said, "I asked Newman to let me know when you checked out for the night. He doesn't think you eat as often as you should."

While this was true, Kimble would never have guessed that Newman might notice. All at once, his insides knotted up. Undoubtedly, Newman had regaled Gerard with stories of Dr. Kimble's nightly therapeutic baking sessions. Flustered, he stuttered, "I—No. Work—"

As if cued, Gerard stepped past him. "Good. Hope you like chicken. There's an all-night cafe I go to. The food's just like mom used to make."

Taking his time, Kimble closed the door, reset the locks, then started down the short corridor that served at one end as the foyer and at the other as the entrance to the living room. Gerard, dressed in a long overcoat with a red scarf dangling from his neck— _that_ was the coat Kimble had found draped over him when Gutherie had come to collect him from the US Marshals Service offices—stood bent over the coffee table in the living room, unloading the contents of the styrofoam container. The mingled scents of spicy fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, freshly baked biscuits, and horseradishy coleslaw seized Kimble's attention as insistently as a blow to the head.

Straightening up, Gerard turned to him. He frowned, registering Kimble's nonplussed expression. "Don't worry, Richard. I'm only here for a follow-up interview. Thought it should be as painless as possible."

Too late to pretend that Gerard's presence had not put him off balance, Kimble essayed an unconcerned shrug, "Did you bring anything to drink with all that?"

"No. Was hoping you'd have something in."

"Last time I looked there was only wine and coffee. Sorry."

"The coffee'll do—unless it's instant?"

"Brewed just a few minutes ago. Ground this morning."

"Oh, _yeah_. The kitchen through there?"

"Uh—"

"Look, just point me in the right direction, Richard. I'll get the plates, cutlery."

"You don't need— Okay, okay. I'll pour the coffee." He gestured Gerard toward the kitchen, wordlessly pointing out the coat rack suspended on the wall in the foyer across the hall. The deputy marshal shed coat and scarf, then accompanied him into the kitchen. He was dressed in a crisply ironed shirt, plain red tie, navy vest, and blue jeans—as impressive a uniform as any Kimble had ever seen. "Milk, cream, sugar?" he asked.

"Sugar. Two teaspoons."

The answer seemed out of character, though Kimble could not have said exactly why; perhaps he expected Gerard's tastes would be as severe as his demeanor. He pulled out the dinnerware drawer and opened the cabinet sheltering plates and bowls, a sweep of the hand granting Gerard free access. While the deputy set about his task, Kimble ruminated, "Would've thought follow-up interviews would be conducted in your office. At a normal hour."

"Imagine it'd be hard to get you in my office at any hour," Gerard remarked dryly. With arms full he started into the corridor, raising his voice so that it would carry. "You settling in okay? At work, at home?"

"Sure." Kimble bore two painfully hot mugs into the living room. There he found Gerard in the last stages of table-setting. "Everyone—well, almost everyone—has been very kind and accommodating."

Upon his words, a sudden thought—a thought that should have occurred to him a full three weeks before—became blindingly obvious. "Oh, God," Kimble groaned. Then he gave a slightly strangled laugh. "You'll have to excuse me for being slow, but the reason—or at least one of the reasons—my pardon came through so fast was so I'd be able to make the NBME exam boards, wasn't it? Otherwise, it would've been another six months before I could reapply to practice without supervision."

"Hardly an appropriate arrangement for a doctor of your standing." Swiftly efficient, Gerard sorted food onto each plate.

"So it's true. You _were_ the one who pushed everything through?"

"With help from Doctor Wahlund." Gerard appropriated the mug held in his direction. "This place, this area. Are they to your liking?"

"Suits me for now." Fully aware of what Gerard was doing, Kimble tacitly agreed to change the subject. "I—uh—I'm not big on entertaining people right now, so I don't need anything larger."

"It's a good neighborhood," Gerard stated. "Quiet. Stable. I'm just a few blocks away, so I know."

"Oh."

The deputy's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Don't worry." He lifted the mug to his lips. "I won't make a habit of dropping in on you."

Kimble flushed; was he so transparent? "It's not that. I—Okay." The openness of the other man compelled him to honesty. "I guess I just don't know how to—you know—talk to you?" His voice trailed off and he felt like an idiot.

Leaning forward, Gerard put his mug on the coffee table, then sat with hands clasped together between his knees. "I understand." He focused on Kimble with that steady, unsettling gaze. "I'm good at what I do—but it doesn't exactly endear me to anyone."

"No. Especially not people who—"

"Run? You're right. It's my job to stop them. But it's nothing personal, if that makes you feel any better."

 _"I don't care"_ meant nearly the same thing as _"nothing personal."_ Yet Gerard _had_ cared. Though Kimble might have been free by now without Gerard's intercession, in all likelihood, he would have been nowhere as far along. He opened his mouth to speak, but Gerard pre-empted him. "You're the first, Richard, and I've been doing this for eighteen years."

Taking the chair at the end of the coffee table and reaching for the unclaimed plate, Kimble selected his words with care. "The first to make you doubt, or the first to prove you wrong?"

Gerard gently corrected, "The first to make me believe in the _possibility_ of innocence."

It was a fine point, but apparently of importance to the deputy marshal. Kimble nodded. "Either way, I'm grateful. Being cleared posthumously wouldn't've looked nearly as good on my resume."

" _If_ you had been cleared even then," Gerard said seriously. "Don't forget. Our investigations supported—and went beyond—your own."

"But only because I led you there in the first place. By the way, when was it you started to believe me?" Kimble kept his expression neutral, telling himself that Gerard's answer meant nothing.

The deputy studied his plate for several seconds, giving his mashed potatoes an annoyed prod while he swallowed a mouthful of chicken. "I don't think that's a question I should answer," he replied at last, and with finality. Then, perhaps to take the rebuff out of his words, he added, "The system failed you, Richard. Since more than ninety-nine percent of convicted felons belong behind bars, you were exceptionally unlucky to go through what they deserve to suffer. On the other hand, you were exceptionally _lucky_ to prove yourself innocent in the way that you did—especially in so a short time."

With a bittersweet moue, Kimble explained, "I did it because of Helen."

"I know." Something that might have been admiration softened Gerard's sculpted, pale features and lightened his deep-set eyes. "And maybe that's why you succeeded."

Kimble almost laughed. "Believe me. If it'd been only for me, I'd've turned myself in long before."

"Would you?"

The question was unanswerable. "Who knows?"

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly Gerard stood and carried his coffee into the center of the room. "Okay. I'm going to tell you the truth. I didn't really come here to perform a follow-up interview."

"No?" Not unaffected by the tension emanating from the other man, Kimble became very still, waiting for him to continue. "Why then?"

An enigmatic twitch of Gerard's lips made Kimble even more wary. "When I found out you'd moved to this part of town—well, I've lost my work-out partner," he said baldly. "Maybe you remember him; he's the deputy Nichols bashed with an I-beam."

"I thought he was going to be okay?" Kimble said blankly, astonished almost beyond words by what Gerard seemed to be leading up to.

"He's got a long rehab coming up with that neck injury. Sort of like Nichols, for that matter. Who is still in a wheelchair, by the way, last I heard. Cosmo's been out of the hospital for weeks now. But it'll be a few months yet before he can return to the field."

"I—"

"C'mon, Richard," Gerard said reasonably. "Don't you have a fitness program? You're a doctor; you must have."

"I don't think—"

Brushing aside Kimble's discomfiture, Gerard ticked each item off on his fingers as he spoke, somehow not spilling a single drop of coffee. "I'm a decent tennis player, though it's not my favorite sport. Racquetball, weights, swimming—well, I'm not in your league in the water, but—"

An unwilling half-smile stole across Kimble's mouth. "I didn't think you wanted to be seen with me. Because of the pardon. Because of what people might think."

"You've been exonerated. Let them think what they like."

"You're serious about this." It was not a question.

It was Gerard's turn to falter; heavy brows arched upward, his face captured the essence of wide-eyed innocence. "I—Well, yeah, I am." He chuckled disarmingly—and Kimble almost bought the act. "What do you say?"

A dozen responses, some of them polite, some of them savagely unkind, came immediately to mind. He could think of no logical reason for Gerard to solicit his company; more importantly, he could think of no logical reason why he should accommodate him. Yet, his initial, unthinking inclination was to agree. His psychiatrist colleagues could undoubtedly explain the impetus; Kimble, all too conscious of the ambivalence and complexity of his own emotions, could not. "I'm not really big on racquetball or weights," he heard himself saying, "and tennis was Charlie's thing." _And golf was Helen's._ The half-smile, fixed in place throughout, slowly, inexorably widened. "And I think I've done enough swimming for a while."

Gerard's constantly assessing gaze held new respect. He drawled, "So what _is_ it you like to do?"

"I run."

Raising the mug to his lips, Gerard hid a smile of his own. He said drolly, "I'd do my best to keep up."

"You sure?" To himself, Kimble thought, _I have lost my mind._ "About us working out together?"

"There's an outdoor track at the high school," Gerard said in reply. "Do you know it?" At Kimble's nod, the deputy suggested, "Tomorrow—early? Say five-thirty?"

Kimble exhaled softly. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Gerard bent down and picked up his plate. "If you change your mind, Richard—Well, that's okay, too. And I mean that." He drained his mug.

"I won't." At least, Kimble owned to himself with a twinge of conscience, he didn't _think_ he would. "What are you doing?"

"Putting my leftovers in your kitchen trash; you won't want them. And I need to be on my way; let you finish your dinner in peace."

Impressed by Gerard's timing, which he deemed under the circumstances to be impeccable, Kimble rose to walk him to the door. Gerard waved him down. "No. I can find my way out. Good night, Richard."

Afterward, with all the locks in place and solitude restored to him, Kimble sat in the living room, his meal cooling on its plate, his coffee tepid, and contemplated what he had agreed to. Regrets began to creep into his mind like ants scouting a jar of sugar. The entire evening had taken on a surreal aspect, and it was easier to turn to routine for distraction than to consider the full enormity of what he had done. Yet it remained with him, lurking in the background while he kept himself busy cleaning the kitchen, storing leftovers, preparing coffee grounds for the next day; through his late-night shower; even through the nightly ritual of tossing and turning until he found a comfortable spot on the mattress. At last, warmly swaddled in sheets and blankets and the silk of encroaching sleep, his thoughts openly acknowledged Deputy Gerard and the morning to come. A certain sense of inevitability overlaid his feelings of dismay—but whether that was a good thing or bad, Kimble had no way of knowing.

* * * * *

At a quarter to five the next day, Kimble woke to the grey glimmerings of dawn, timer-brewed coffee, and a second ambushing of doubts. He prepared for the day as though he had every intention of meeting Gerard at the high school, splashing water on his face, gulping hot black coffee, and dressing appropriately for what looked to be cold, dreary weather. But he moved without haste or diligence; and when at last he registered the time, he even considered forgoing their first session altogether, thinking that he would call Gerard later in the day and reschedule.

The idea seemed so eminently reasonable that it took a moment for the truth of the matter to sink in. He was in retreat. For all that he had managed to evade the USMS and the CPD, running was _not_ his style—nor was it a weakness to be tolerated. He gave himself no more opportunity to dawdle, but hurried out of the apartment and drove, though usually he walked, to the high school. Not surprisingly, he arrived nearly twenty minutes late at the appointed place, guilt competing with a pessimistic certainty that Gerard would not be there.

In fact, he found the deputy marshal just inside the chain link fence that surrounded the track, bent over in a grueling hamstring stretch.

"You shouldn't do that."

Completing the movement without urgency, Gerard turned his head to watch Kimble's approach. "What—this?"

Kimble gestured in the direction of the track. His pace deliberately slow, he walked past him, having no doubt that Gerard would follow.

"Well?" Gerard prodded, obligingly catching up.

"Recent studies indicate that a brisk walk of five minutes," he glanced down at his watch, "is less detrimental to cold muscles than the hard stretches you were doing."

"And after five minutes, you run?"

"That's right. And _after_ the run, you—"

"Stretch?"

"Right."

"Why bother?"

"Lessens the likelihood of injury; prepares your muscles for the next time out. Keeps them from cooling down too fast."

"My God," Gerard remarked expressionlessly, "Guess I'm lucky you showed up—I could've hurt myself."

For a moment only the crunch of gravel underfoot and the whisper of wheels on the road beyond the chain link fence were audible. Kimble confessed, "I almost didn't come."

"I had figured that out," Gerard said.

"I'm sorry. Thanks for waiting."

"Sure."

Nothing else was said as they continued round the track, their purposeful gait graduating from hurried walk to slow jog to steady run. At first Kimble racked his brain in search of some topic of conversation the other man might appreciate. Several ideas were reviewed and discarded. Not that he feared Gerard's dismissal of them out of hand, nor even that he might be bored with Kimble's choices; it was more a matter of not knowing where this uneasy acquaintance was going, what, in fact, Gerard _expected_ of him. He hesitated to give too much of himself away, of the opinion that Gerard knew far too much about him already.

So they ran in silence, well-matched in their pace and endurance. The deputy marshal made no complaint and seemed, so far as Kimble could tell, satisfied—though as usual Gerard's expression, observed in fleeting, sidelong glances, told him nothing. Eventually Kimble stopped worrying, his mind soaring as free as the first birds rising off the roof of the school. It was enough to be here, amidst the filtered light of dawn and moisture-laden air, with an undemanding running partner at his side. He and Helen had occasionally run together, too; Helen, however, had preferred her aerobics class.

What, he wondered, would she have made of Gerard? For that matter, what would she—blessed with a trenchant sense of humor—have made of Kimble's present circumstances, especially his fraternizing with the man who not only had hunted him, but had also engineered his freedom? Although she would certainly have protested his misfortune, Helen also would likely have seen the irony of it all.

His thoughts engaged elsewhere, Kimble unintentionally dictated the length of their run by proceeding with his usual number of laps, though he had meant to let Gerard set the distance on this first shared run. Alerted by his internal clock, he cast a quick glance at his watch. They were already on the last leg. He dropped their gait to a jog.

Gerard said, "Five miles?"

"Three times a week."

"Is that all?"

Breaking into a grin, Kimble excused himself by saying, "Pretty much all I can work in."

The deputy gave him an empathetic look. "Yeah." As they walked along the side of the main building, Gerard reminded him, "So show me these stretches of yours."

"Happy to."

"We on for Monday?"

Kimble led the way to one of the lunch benches. He placed a heel on the seat and demonstrated a smooth, gradual straightening of the leg. "Same time, same place."

Eyeing Kimble's maneuvers with a doubtful expression, Gerard nevertheless copied the action precisely. "I'll be here," he said.

* * * * *

"Why a doctor?"

"Had the crazy idea I'd like to help people."

"Do you still?"

"Sometimes." Kimble gave the question real thought. "Most of the time."

The long shadows of dawn stretched at intervals from east to west across the high school track, as insubstantial in the crisp Monday morning air as the billowing exhalations produced by two sets of hard-working lungs.

"Remember that kid at Cook County?" Gerard asked. "The one with the chest injury you took to surgery?"

"Yeah?

"Talked to his doctor. He's doing fine. Back in action, showing off his scar."

"How'd you come to find that out?" Kimble asked. The news cheered him.

"Somehow the press got hold of it; maybe you missed the article a few weeks back. The ER doctor was more than happy to talk. At least she had the sense to clear it with me first."

"Eastman?"

"Uh—She the redhead?"

"Red as they come."

"Yeah, Eastman. She was really taken with you."

"Huh."

"Have you seen her since that day?"

For Kimble, this morning had been a long time coming. At the conclusion of Friday's session, he had insisted upon driving the deputy marshal to his apartment. Once there, he let the car idle alongside the curb while apologizing again for having occasioned their late start. Gruffly unconcerned, Gerard had promised him that the time-saving ride more than made up for Kimble's lapse, and with a sketchy wave vanished into his apartment building.

After that, somehow, what remained of the day seemed less colorful, less crisp, less fascinating—though by no means had it failed to demand his attention. During morning rounds—accompanied by Akbari, who seemed a little less bright-eyed than usual—he had been stymied by two patients whose post-operative responses defied explanation. The first, an old man who had undergone multiple bypass surgery the day before, appeared to be recuperating with inordinate speed. While Kimble could not complain about _that_ , there was the nursing staff, which was being run ragged with the patient's requests for greater freedom and extended bouts of therapeutic activity, to contend with. The second patient, a teenager who had undergone the lengthy repair of a congenital aneurysm, had begun a rapid decline. Akbari, suspecting infection, her diagnosis precisely echoing Kimble's, had suggested a thirty-six-hour regimen of wide-spectrum antibiotics, administered intravenously, to "nip the bug in the bud," a choice of words that briefly improved Kimble's opinion of the day.

Later, outside Gehti's private room—the convict had been moved that very morning—Kimble had exchanged pleasantries with Deputy Biggs. Something about the man was not to Kimble's liking, though he clearly had the trust and support of his boss—as, so far as Kimble could tell, did all the deputy marshals under Gerard's authority that he had met. They were a hard crew, made up of several disparate personalities, brought together by a common _raison d'etre_ , and led by a man who managed somehow to command their hearts as well as their bodies. It was, to Kimble's mind, no coincidence that he heard the same high regard for Sam Gerard in the very different voices of both Newman and Biggs.

The proposal for his property had greeted him from the floor of his apartment beneath the mail drop upon his visit home just after noon that Friday. With that and a sandwich, he had returned to the hospital to find his bypass patient positioned—none too happily and only after considerable coercion—in front of the television in his room for the duration of the afternoon soaps. His aneurysm patient, mildly febrile and displaying otherwise normal post-surgical discomfort had been just as tractable though for less encouraging reasons. The young boy lapsed in and out of sleep during Kimble's examination—in itself a more worrisome symptom than the two or three out-of-range results noted on the hematology and blood chemistry screens.

Having instructed the nursing staff to keep him informed of any changes, Kimble had succeeded in whittling out some time for himself. Holed up in his office, he carefully read through the proposal for his property. Finding all to his satisfaction, he had then called his real estate agent, and left a message on her machine. With nothing else pressing, he had picked up a random issue of the _Annals of Surgery_ from his stack of "to-reads"—and promptly lost all sense of time. When Akbari stopped by to tell him good night seemingly minutes later, he had discovered it was nearly nine.

She had given him a quick run-down of their current, most critical cases. The old man was sleeping well; the young one was showing some improvement. After she had signed out, Kimble had double-checked her assessments. All were as she had said.

At last Kimble had gone home, where he quietly savored the remains of the evening, looking forward to spending Saturday and part of Sunday at the hospital—by choice, rather than need. And Monday morning, he had promised himself, he would be on time for his appointed run with Gerard.

As it happened, he had seen Gerard well before then—in fact, the man had appeared almost the instant Kimble's eyes fell shut Friday night. His dreams were pleasant and lingering, like a subtle fragrance caught in the air long after its wearer has departed. Though details were lost to him, Kimble held vague memories of Gerard's scarred and battle-weary face, the corners of his mouth tucked into an impish smile; a hand, large and warm, clapped upon Kimble's shoulder; and a leisurely, friendly voice saying—something. Something that had made the dream-Kimble happy, though he could not remember the words.

"Richard."

"Yeah?" Yawning, Kimble came back to the present.

"I asked you about Eastman. Have you seen her since?"

"Seen her? No. Why?"

"She spoke," Gerard glanced toward the morning horizon, as if seeking the exact word in its orangey streaks, " _admiringly_ of you."

"'Admiringly?'" Kimble scoffed. "You sound like a reporter, Sam."

Gerard scowled at him.

"Come to that, how'd you get to be a US marshal?" Kimble asked with genuine curiosity.

"Deputy marshal."

"Deputy marshal. So what's the difference?"

"There are 95 US marshals, one for each of the judicial districts—and all are political appointees. _Deputy_ marshals are paid professionals. Civil servants."

"Spoken without a trace of resentment."

"If that's true, then I said it wrong. Very few of those yahoos know the first thing about how we work, what it takes to get the job done. And when power shifts hands, we get stuck with someone else to put up with."

"That's crazy."

"Tell me something I don't know, Richard."

"So, what do you do other than chase fugitives?"

"We don't chase just any fugitives; only federal fugitives."

"But I—"

"We weren't after you. We were after Copeland. You got caught in the crowd."

Kimble stared at him. "You had—You had no jurisdiction?"

"The FBI washes their hands of a criminal after they make an arrest. And they're not big on hunting down escaped felons. They made excuses; for us, it was more," Gerard deliberated, " _constructive_ than doing paperwork."

Numb, Kimble intoned, "Happy to have been of service." He turned to give Gerard a cynical look and caught the other man watching him intently. "So you chase crooks—federal crooks—and do paperwork. What else?"

"Protect members of the judiciary, transport federal prisoners, oversee the Witness Security program, enforce federal laws as required, and process warrants, warrants, warrants—everything from software copyright infringement to disputed property."

"You were the guys at Wounded Knee."

"Right. And at Selma, Alabama before that. We were also with the FBI agents who blew away Randy Weaver's dog, fourteen-year-old son, and wife at Ruby Ridge, Idaho. The brainless bastard in charge of that action should've been assigned to target practice at Glynco—as one of the targets."

"What about you?" Kimble asked. "You're in charge of the Chicago unit?"

"The Northern Illinois District. That is, the operational end of it. Roth's the nominal boss, the Marshal."

"You answer to him?"

"Not really. There's a regional head marshal, a guy called Jim Hanley—"

"A paid professional."

"—who acts as intermediary with the Executive Office. Not the White House," Gerard anticipated Kimble's interjection. "The Executive Office of the US Marshals Service."

"Him, then?"

"Only if I get out of hand. Which I don't. Mostly I'm left alone," Gerard said flatly. "They trust me."

"Lot of power for one man."

"I don't abuse it. And my judgment is trusted for a reason."

"Be your own man," Kimble stated glibly. "Travel across state lines. Carry large caliber pistols."

Expressionless, Gerard countered, "You owned a thirty-eight. _That's_ considered a large caliber pistol. By the way, it should have been returned to you. Was it?"

"Yeah." Within a day of his pardon, all of the personal effects confiscated upon Kimble's introduction to the justice system had appeared on his doorstep in a large, unmarked brown bag, delivered by a special courier. "The difference is I've never pointed it at anyone."

"Then you've been lucky. Because there's a difference between pointing it at someone, and pulling the trigger."

"Not as much as you might imagine, if you're the one at the wrong end of it," Kimble disagreed.

"I _do_ recall what it feels like to be at that end." Gerard raised his brows significantly.

"You knew I wouldn't shoot you."

"I thought there was a good chance you wouldn't," Gerard owned. "But I didn't know you then."

"And you know me now?"

" _Now_ I know you wouldn't shoot me."

A grudging smile sneaked past Kimble's defenses. It was echoed by a commensurately ironical grin etched on Gerard's face. Strange, how Kimble could remember that same rough-hewn face, features set, a hint of regret shadowing the eyes, those dark, dark eyes that had stared at him through a shield of bulletproof glass while a finger had pulled the trigger, not once but many times—yet be here with him now, this man who would have killed him because it was his job.

Stranger still, for Kimble to _want_ to be here.

Moments later, they concluded the morning's run, performed a few cool-down stretches, then parted company on the sidewalk outside the school. Kimble reached his apartment in an abidingly good mood.

The day went downhill from there. He arrived at the hospital bearing the faintly warming weight of the sun's first, luridly golden rays on his head and back. Inside, he found Akbari in a state of high frustration. The fourteen-year-old aneurysm patient had developed a sensitivity to the antibiotics; his condition was deteriorating once more. Within a period of two hours, Kimble was called upon to assist in emergency surgeries, one of which ended in the patient's dying on the table, the other a mixed success, for though the child would live, her mangled arm, untidily severed above the elbow in a disastrous car accident, had suffered too much trauma to warrant attempted reattachment. The father, called in from the job, had absorbed the news of his only child's injury—and his wife's death—with an uncomplicated grief that had scored Kimble's heart.

He knew too well that sort of grief. And it seemed impossible, as the day progressed, to distance himself from it. Yet he forged on, acknowledging to himself that there were times when he was overly vulnerable to the agonies of others, when they crawled inside him and, unasked, took up lodging.

Just before noon, he conferred with Akbari about their failing patient. She was looking harried and close to losing her temper. As a last resort, they would have to perform another thoracotomy. Opening the young man's chest again could end disastrously, but the results of the battery of tests she had ordered all pointed toward the need for a second operation. Playing for time, Kimble contacted the lab tech who had set up the boy's blood culture. By now she should have tentative organisms and pharmaceutical sensitivity identifications. Following his line of thought as though it had been launched from her own mind, Akbari agreed at once with his reasoning, and offered to take care of following up.

Grateful, Kimble left his resident on her own, retiring to his office for a moment's breather. His respite was measured in only seconds before there came a peremptory knock at the door.

"Yeah?"

Sam Gerard stepped into his office. Resplendent in perfectly tailored navy suit jacket, starched white shirt, knitted prussian vest, subtly patterned cobalt silk tie, and the requisite denim trousers, he was all seriousness and all business.

This the last person Kimble had expected to see, he could only stare at the deputy marshal, his thoughts slamming into each other in their haste to make sense of his presence.

Looking uncomfortable himself, Gerard greeted him curtly, "Richard. I'm sorry to barge in like this."

For one breathless instant, Kimble believed that Gerard had come to re-arrest him. "What—?"

"It's about Gehti," Gerard said. "Since he attempted to sneak out of here—"

"He attempted to sneak out?"

"You didn't know?"

Kimble's faintly shocked gaze cut sidelong toward his phone. Yes, the message light was flashing. He had not noticed it, nor, for that matter, would he have had a chance to listen to the recording before Gerard's arrival. "Was anyone injured?"

"Not this time. Biggs went down the hall for a cup of coffee—the vending machine is two yards away, and his back was turned for less than a minute—but Gehti removed all the tubes and wires and was quick-footing it toward the elevator by the time Biggs turned around and saw what was going on."

"He's been restrained?"

"Yes. We're here to transport him to the medical facilities at the county detention center. I called about an hour ago to set it up. Talked with your resident. Didn't she tell you?"

Kimble sighed. "We've been busy. Working on another patient. She must have forgotten." He kneaded his face with his hands. "I'd say he's okay for release. Let me do a final examination. After that, I'll let you know if you can take him. You do have qualified medical personnel with you to oversee his move?"

Gerard's lips tightened. "I know the drill, Richard."

"Right."

Shortly afterward, Kimble stood next to his wayward patient, who watchfully but silently endured the thorough going-over that was imposed upon him. "Infection in those drainage incisions isn't anything to mess with," Kimble said pointlessly, speaking simply to fill the void. "And even though the IV's are gone and we've disconnected the monitors, I don't think you're quite ready to be roaming around on your own."

Gehti only smiled.

Illogically disheartened, Kimble began to fill in his observations on the patient's chart, keenly conscious of Gerard a pace behind him, overseeing everything, his company as irritating as it was tolerable. He was flanked by the prison physician into whose safekeeping Gehti was to be removed.

"Wish all my patients healed so quickly," Kimble said. He signed his name, jotted down his medical license number from memory, and filled in the date. Finished, he released the transport form from the clipboard and handed it to Gerard. "There you go. All yours."

"Thank you, doctor," Gerard said formally, handing the paperwork to the prison physician without comment. "Sorry to inconvenience you."

"No inconvenience." One side of Kimble's mouth curved upward in a sardonic grin. "Guess I'll see you Wednesday, Sam."

The deputy only nodded—but there was a rare, warming light in his eyes that Kimble was learning to recognize. It reassured him as no number of broad smiles and pats on the back could do—which led him to wonder if Gerard had guessed what he had been feeling back there in his office at first sight of the deputy marshal, the reflexive panic that had curdled his insides, the dumb terror that had disabled his ability to think with any clarity or logic. Given what little he knew of Sam Gerard, he had to assume that he had known exactly what Kimble's reaction would be. Yet he had dealt with him like the professionals they both were, neither exacerbating Kimble's fears nor catering to them.

His spirits raised a notch, Kimble directed Jeniel McKee, the duty nurse, to give Gerard all the assistance he required, sketched a wave Gerard's way without waiting to see that it was returned, and started back to his office. He found Akbari there, slumped in the spare seat, eyes closed, her head resting on her ample chest.

Without looking up, she rattled off the name of a potent antibiotic, its dosage levels and intervals.

"You've already set it up?" Kimble collapsed into his chair.

"Yes."

"Good." He propped his chin in his hand. "I've just handed Gehti over to the US Marshals Service."

"Oh, God." Akbari spasmed from head to toe and sat up rigidly in her chair, looking for all the world like a schoolgirl awaiting a scolding. "I meant to tell you right after I stitched the idiot's incisions; the tubes were ready to come out anyway. Then I was called away; Benny was having trouble breathing." She took a deep breath. "That's no excuse. I'm sorry."

The woman was tired; every line in her face underscored this fact. "Gerard showed up _here_ to tell me," Kimble said.

Akbari offered no defense, no argument. Bleakness defined her.

Dredging up the tattered remnants of his sense of humor, Kimble confessed. "I thought he'd come to haul _me_ off!"

Startlement overcame weariness; aghast, Akbari whispered, "You didn't _really—_ "

"For a moment." Kimble mocked his own foolishness. "Yes, I did."

"Oh, how awful! I _am_ so sorry, Dr. Kimble."

"You needn't be. I think it's an indication of how tired we both are."

Embarrassment darkened the coffee-and-cream hue of Akbari's skin. "I was up late last night," she apologized, "keeping Newman company. And then I met him early this morning, when he went off shift. We had coffee in the cafeteria."

It had not been Kimble's intent to take his resident to task for her private life. _He_ , after all, had gotten up early to meet Gerard for their dawn run. "Now that Gehti's off our hands, maybe Deputy Newman'll be assigned some decent hours."

Akbari appeared uncertain how to interpret Kimble's remark. He decided to let her figure it out for herself. "It's all right, Akbari. I'll see you for evening rounds."

After she had gone, he remained at his desk, mindlessly swinging his chair from side to side. There were, at a rough count, eight million things he could be doing. Instead, he allowed the moment to stretch, recalling the hour just past, his mixed reactions to Gerard's showing up here, this of all places the one he held safe.

The deputy consistently ignited a wildfire of conflicting emotions in him, some pleasurable, some indescribably disagreeable. Perhaps it would be more sensible to break off their acquaintance. He suspected that Gerard, realist that he was, would readily understand Kimble's side of things, might even, Kimble dejectedly mused, approve the suggestion.

He shut off his mind, deciding not to decide anything just now. It was, after all, not an urgent topic for internal debate. Their next scheduled run was two days away.

Kimble would worry about it later.

* * * * *

"Richard." The voice was smooth with a bit of gravel stirred in, a smoker's voice, though Kimble had yet to see its owner light up. The hand on his arm was penetratingly warm, the pressure of large fingers firm and friendly. "Richard, are you up to this today?"

Kimble broke free of the thick, treacly membrane of sleep stubbornly clinging to his brain. Dark brown eyes, piercing and perpetually alert, studied him searchingly from a distance of mere inches. A man, Kimble thought drowsily, could find safety in such eyes. And then he grinned at the notion, innocently unaware of the sweetness of his smile.

"Are you awake?" Gerard asked.

"Sure." A yawn punctuated his reply. He waved the other man away from the car door. Gerard opened it for him, and held it wide until Kimble had lurched out.

"Busy day yesterday?"

"Yeah. Had to re-open a post-op that went bad. Sometime around midnight, if I remember correctly."

"We could have postponed," Gerard reminded him gently.

"Nah." Kimble stretched, then shook himself all over, like a dog caught in a rainstorm. He glanced at his watch. "You're a little late, too." Looking idly around, he spied Gerard's car parked on the far side of his own; he had not heard it drive up. Stabbing a thumb in its direction, he echoed, "We could've postponed."

Gerard shook his head. "Need the air. The exercise." They ambled out onto the dirt track, their stride picking up as they went. "Tell me about your patient. The one who kept you up all night."

Kimble did, taking his time, describing the young man's case history as much for his own benefit as for Gerard's. If the deputy marshal found the particulars boring, he refrained from saying so; on the contrary he asked questions that Kimble considered remarkably perceptive for a layman.

"Do you always get special cases like that? Above and beyond the usual bypasses and varicose vein repairs?" Gerard wondered.

"Fairly often, yes."

"Because you're good at what you do?"

Kimble considered this. "I suppose so."

Very quietly Gerard commented, "Lot of power for one man."

Hesitating for less than a second, Kimble rejoined, "I don't abuse it."

"It's all relative, wouldn't you say?"

A flippant response teetered on the edge of his tongue; but that would have been unfair. Gerard had pointed out that they were two men who dealt with life and death on a regular basis, and in many cases were personally responsible for the outcome. Neither of them was careless with their power, but neither were they intimidated by it.

He cast his companion a long, measuring look. "In many ways, yes."

At that moment, the heavens commenced a steady, chilling drizzle. Kimble half expected Gerard to call a stop to their run—if for no other reason than that he came across as someone who held his comfort dear. But Gerard said nothing, and some while later, as they were pounding into the last lap, Kimble caught sight of him with head tilted back, his face and throat bared to the rain.

Kimble laughed lightly at this seemingly atypical behavior, overtaken by a sudden surge of kinship.

"Sometimes," Gerard said sanguinely, correctly interpreting Kimble's laughter, "it's just nice to be alive."

* * * * *

Kimble managed to meet Kathy Wahlund for lunch the following day. In their cafeteria corner of choice, removed from most other diners, they sat with heads bent close. Kimble sawed at his veal parmigiana with the tip of his knife and finished recounting recent events. "And the closing date is set for next month."

"Are you going to look for another house, Richard? For tax purposes if nothing else?"

"Not right away. The apartment _is_ kind of small," he acknowledged, "but I'm happy where I am."

Wahlund raised a forkful of peas and carrots, studying them dubiously before proclaiming, "You're still baking, aren't you?"

Abandoning the plate with a sigh, Kimble picked up his milk carton and took a swig before answering. "Well, I had a few nights off."

"Nightmares?"

He shrugged. "Not really. A dream." His mouth flattened into an annoyed line. "Just a dream."

"Tell me about it?"

His eyes shot up to Wahlund's face. "I—No. It was stupid." As she began to speak, he interjected, "Maybe some day. Not today."

"It upset you."

He picked up his fork and gave the veal a poke. "It—I guess the word isn't 'upset.' It's 'surprised.'"

Wahlund smiled reassuringly, then held out her hand, waggling the fingers expressively.

"You're rotten, Kath," Kimble stated, taking an oversized packet of cellophane-wrapped Bundt lemon poppyseed cake out of his pocket and slapping it, with surgical precision, into her waiting palm.

Laughing with husky charm, Wahlund regarded Kimble's gift with a confection-lover's delight. "One of my favorites!" she exclaimed softly. Then she rested blue eyes dark with sympathy on Kimble's tired face. "Of course, I would prefer to see you looking more rested."

" _Sure_ you would. No, I'm all right," Kimble hastened to add in response to Wahlund's threatening look. He took a bite of veal. His body threatened to rebel. Hungry though he was, the veal was not one of the cafeteria's better efforts.

"Are you still running with Gerard?"

"Monday, Wednesday, and Friday." He wondered if there was a neon marquee on his forehead announcing the source of his insomnia.

Shaking her head, Wahlund murmured, "You will never cease to amaze me, Richard."

"Why?" The veal, questionable to begin with, had lost all flavor. Nevertheless, he choked down another bite.

"Becoming friends with that man. I mean, I know he's a good person. He really went the extra mile— _hundred_ miles—for you. But I wouldn't have thought you'd ever feel comfortable with him."

Smiling weakly, Kimble said, "Who says I do?"

"Then why?" Using her fork for emphasis, Wahlund insisted, "Why continue seeing him?"

Kimble spread both hands, spilling a dollop of parmigiana sauce off the tines of his own fork onto the laminated tabletop. "I like him." His tone of voice, however, said, _I don't like liking him._

"Like him or _like_ him?"

"Kath—" Kimble growled.

Regarding him from under her lashes, she patted his hand. "Well, there's certainly _nothing_ wrong with that." Displaying her teeth, she said sweetly, "C'mon, Richard. So you like him. And it worries you because he chased you and he shot at you. But he also helped you put your life back together. So there's no reason _not_ to like him, is there?"

"You can be a real butthead when you want to," Kimble said with some admiration.

Wahlund's gurgling laughter eased his unspoken doubts. "I didn't mean to imply that you'd gone from AC to DC just because your pet deputy is becoming your pet friend." She raised her brows archly. "But if you had, _I'd_ be the last person to give you a hard time about it, now wouldn't I?"

"I know, I know." He used the excuse of cutting off another piece of meat and positioning it on his fork to delay his next remark. "But you hit a sore spot, okay?" he conceded. "About my liking him in spite of everything? I don't know if I'll forget what he did in the county lockup, the way he looked, his eyes, as he shot at me." The image was still frighteningly clear and real—as though it had happened only minutes, rather than weeks ago.

"Richard."

He raised his head, brow furrowed.

"About him trying to shoot you through bulletproof glass. Seems a stupid thing for someone like him to do."

"Oh, it came as a shock to him," Kimble said glumly. "He'd obviously forgotten it was there."

Wahlund tilted her head to one side. "Had he?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he doesn't strike me as the kind of man to forget anything, ever."

Kimble could not agree more. Still, _he_ had been the one on the far side of that glass. Seeing those bullets splatter like bugs on a windshield— "No, that's certainly true."

"And _maybe_ he was surprised because you didn't do what everyone else would have done. You know, most of us would've stood there and wet ourselves, Richard! At the very least." She widened her eyes for effect. "But not you. Energizer Bunny that you are, you just kept going."

"Huh." Kimble felt as though cold water had been splashed in his face. "I suppose you could be right. In fact, he _could_ have had me before I ever got to the door. He had a clear shot, from a long way back." In retrospect, Kimble could almost see the humorous side of the picture they must have presented—one grown man racing after another, everyone else standing well clear. "You know, he practically chased me all the way to the door." Sensing Wahlund's amusement, he said plainly, "It never occurred to me, okay? And it doesn't mean anything. It's only conjecture, Kath."

"True."

"It'd be nice if you were right," he added wistfully.

"So ask him."

Shaking his head, Kimble gave not even an instant's thought to the suggestion. "No."

"Maybe later," Wahlund persevered. "Once you know him better."

He shook his head again. " _If_ I ever know him better," Kimble said, unintentionally revealing his innermost thoughts, "I might like the answer even less."

Blue eyes filled with speculation, Wahlund said nothing.

* * * * *

The remainder of the day left Richard little time to his thoughts. Along with his ongoing patients, including Benny, his young aneurysm sufferer who while improving was not yet in the clear, he assisted in several emergency cases, his services ranging from merely offering recommendations to taking over the surgery itself. In the latter instance, he ended up working with Dr. Morgan, the anesthesiologist who had taken an immediate and persistent dislike of him. Though civil, Morgan never attempted to be more. Kimble, recalling a few of the more repellent individuals he had encountered while an involuntary guest of the Illinois Department of Corrections, ignored Morgan's antipathy, treating him like a fellow professional and tolerating nothing less in return. The surgery, the last of the day, came to a satisfactory conclusion. Cleaning up alongside Morgan afterward, Kimble complimented him on his expertise under grueling circumstances—massive throat trauma in a patient made things especially difficult for the anesthesiologist—and was rewarded with grudging praise in return.

Buoyed by this breakthrough, Kimble returned to his office, checked his messages, dictated a smattering of comments for inclusion in the appropriate patient records, then settled into an article in the journal of the moment. As usual, his time sense was flawed. When he finally checked his watch, it was past nine; he had meant to leave at least an hour earlier.

As he gathered his things, it occurred to him that the last few days had blurred seemingly endlessly into one another, scarcely with endings or beginnings. His conversation with Wahlund, conducted only hours before, had taken on a misty, long-ago quality. Details had become obscured. Only her observations regarding Gerard's actions in the county lockup on St. Patrick's Day remained clear in his mind.

Wishful thinking.

* * * * *

From running on overdrive, Kimble dropped with disconcerting abruptness into low gear. Friday, notable only for his morning jaunt with Gerard, was committed to coping with stacks of overdue paperwork. On Saturday, following another quiet day in his office, he met with Wahlund at her nephew's dinner theatre for the company's latest production. And Sunday, he slept undisturbed until noon, venturing forth an hour later to undertake a drive in the country. His thoughts were his only companions; but they were an undemanding lot, and easily pacified. Alone in the sunshine, at peace with the world and himself, it was possible to imagine that this was the way life was supposed to be. He could almost feel the healing process at work within him.

At the beginning of the new week, he met Gerard in the school parking lot. During the previous Friday's run, he had continued to ask the deputy marshal about himself, innocuous, inoffensive questions made in the guise of desultory conversation. He resumed his efforts on Monday, gently probing for details concerning Gerard's background, his view of the world in general, his observations concerning specific topics of the day. Bits and pieces, extracted with genuine interest and perseverance, slowly combined to render an overall picture of Gerard's adult life. The man was not naturally chatty and often turned the tables so that it was Kimble who came under friendly interrogation. But Kimble did not give up.

By the end of the week he had learned that Gerard graduated high school an honors student. Motivated by a strong sense of duty, he had joined the Army. During his eight-year stint, he had survived two tours in Vietnam. When he took his discharge, the USMS had been waiting for him; but, he had declined. Instead, he had returned to his home state and there, under a full scholarship, attended university. Three-and-a-half years and a degree in criminology later, the USMS had attempted to recruit him once more. This time he had accepted. He had almost married; when that relationship had failed, he chose to remain single.

"You were in the Navy," Gerard said in reply to Kimble's query concerning his reasons for separating from the service. The deputy marshal was bent half-forward holding a toe-to-buttock stretch.

"Yes," Kimble said, caught in an identical pose, "but I didn't stay in for eight years. One enlistment. Enough to get the GI Bill."

"So you could go to school."

"Yes. So I could become a doctor. Was that what you set out to do? Be a deputy marshal, I mean?"

Gerard flashed his teeth disparagingly, "I wanted to be Joe Friday when I was a kid."

"Dr. Kildare," Kimble confided in return.

"You're better looking," Gerard said obliquely. "Got anything planned for tomorrow?"

Derailed by Gerard's statement regarding his appearance, Kimble was slow to respond. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Taking my boat out on the lake. You're welcome to join me."

"You have a boat?"

"My only vice." Gerard snaked a terry-cloth towel out of his gym bag and began to wipe off his face and neck.

"How big?"

"Eighteen feet. If you're interested, I'll pick you up at your place about 11:00."

"I—" Kimble cast about for something to say.

"I keep her in a marina. They supply wet-suits, that sort of thing."

"Kinda cold out there, isn't it?"

"Probably warmer than on land. Supposed to be a nice day tomorrow." He collected his things. "If I don't hear from you before eleven tomorrow, I'll assume you want to go."

It was an agreeable out. Kimble was grateful. "Yeah, okay."

Gerard turned away, heading for his car. Kimble stood a moment, getting his own kit together, covertly tracking Gerard's progress.

"Why not?" Kimble said to himself. Gerard disappeared into his car. The engine started with a solid rumble. "Who knows," Kimble muttered, "it might be fun." He climbed into his Mercedes and keyed the ignition. Gerard's car slooped round the corner, out of sight. "Been a long time since I was on a boat."

* * * * *

"It's a one-design," Gerard explained. "Capable of safely carrying two adults."

Staring with some dismay at the simple, fragile-looking craft bobbing inside the wood-enclosed inlet, Kimble groaned, "Idiot that I am, I was imagining a cruiser. Something with an engine, anyway."

"Stocked with beer and loud music."

"A guy can hope."

"This is more fun. After you sail in this baby, that beer'll taste extra good."

"Huh."

"Come on, Richard. You game?"

His mouth tightly compressed to deflect a smile, Kimble nodded. "You bet."

As fluidly as an otter, Gerard stepped down into the craft. He looked like an otter, too, dressed in a slick, black wet-suit from throat to ankle, waterproof, slip-resistant black shoes encasing his feet. Kimble was similarly attired, his outfit rented from the marina for a "reasonable fee" that, when announced, had lifted his brows.

"Remember the basics?"

Kimble eased himself into the boat. Gesturing toward the front, then toward the rear, he said tersely, "Bow. Stern."

One foot on either side of the centerboard, Gerard compensated for Kimble's weight by bending his knees and leaning from side to side. He poked a finger toward the starboard bench. Kimble obediently took his station while Gerard cast off, using the paddle to ease them away from the dock, the breeze too slight to allow the use of the sails.

"Anything else come to mind?"

Wielding a finger as a pointer, Kimble started once more at the front and moved toward the back. "Forestay, jib, mast, shrouds, mainsail, mainsheets, jibsheets, boom, boom vang, transom, tiller, rudder," Kimble continued to reel off the names of each part of the boat, names he had once known as automatically as his own. In fact, he was surprised at the ease with which it all came back—it had, after all, been a long, long time.

Gerard gave him a probing look, but refrained from comment.

The sun shone bright as they sailed into the afternoon. Kimble oversaw the jibsheet while Gerard manned the rudder and the centerboard. The need for hand-bailing was minimal, as the boat was equipped with a transom self-bailer. They communicated in commands and responses. The work was hard and constant. Within the first hours, Kimble's arms and legs were aching, his muscles protesting the rigorous work-out.

But he was happy. The warmth of the day sank into his bones and heated him from the inside out. His face was wet with spray, his lashes beaded with water, his hair drenched. And he did not care. The air was fresh and invigorating, the steady motion of the boat a test to his equilibrium, his contained, monosyllabic companion preferred above all others. When Gerard fished a couple of chocolate bars out of a hitherto-stowed canvas bag and handed him one, Kimble knew before he bit into it that it would taste better, richer, more exquisite than anything he had eaten in nearly two years.

As they tacked slowly back up to the dock, Kimble was suffused with contentment. Gerard, as pink-faced, soaked, and shiny-eyed as he, guided the small vessel into its docking space and expertly fixed the mooring lines. Their exertions were not yet at an end, however. Together they lifted the boat out of the water, dropped the sails, which were then hosed off and laid out to dry, and at last took down the mast, being careful not to snarl the shrouds and the forestay. They worked with smooth efficiency and an unlikely awareness of what the other would do before he did it.

At last the craft was berthed on its shelf in the boathouse, everything properly folded, tied off, and stowed. Kimble turned in his wet-suit after making use of the changing room. Toweling off, he felt his pores open wide, free at last of the binding garment.

Gerard awaited him at the door, one brow cocked inquiringly.

"It can't be a vice if you have to work that hard at it," Kimble commented reproachfully.

A wide grin split Gerard's face. "You ready to eat?"

"Past ready!"

The all-night cafe that Gerard delivered them to was a popular spot. He was known there, and apparently well liked, for a table was found for them within seconds of their crossing the threshold despite the clumps of people littering the foyer, patiently counting the minutes till their names were called.

Leaning back against the heavily padded booth back, Kimble was quite certain that he looked every bit as boneless as he felt. He perked up just long enough to place his order with the waitress greeted by Gerard as "Ethel." She gave Kimble a hard look and promised she would be right back with their coffee.

"You going to make it through dinner?"

"It's what's keeping me alive."

"That must mean you'll be wanting to go out on the water again soon." The comment was not so much an invitation as a challenge.

"How long have you been boating?" Kimble asked, purposely sidestepping the question, if question it was.

"Seven years? Eight? A friend introduced me to it back in, oh, must've been 1985."

"Can see why you like it," Kimble said honestly. "Never gave a thought to the hospital from the minute I stepped on board. Like it ceased to exist. Of course it helped that my pager didn't go off."

"Or mine." Gerard chuckled, the sound emerging deep and thick from the bottom of his throat. "Not that you'd've heard it through all those layers of rubber."

"You have to carry one, too?"

"Of course. Gets old, doesn't it?"

"Very. But I suppose—" Gerard had ceased to listen, his dark eyes fixed on something, or someone, beyond Richard's head. Cautiously, his face carefully composed, Kimble looked around.

"Hey, doc. How you getting on?"

Rosetti. Kelly. The two detectives who had taken Kimble in for questioning the night of Helen's murder, whose testimony had helped to put him in jail.

"Detective Kelly," he said to the white-haired, rotund man. "Detective Rosetti," this to his bespectacled and equally rotund companion. "Doing much better now," Kimble replied blandly.

"That don't surprise me," Kelly said with a toothy smile. "And how are you, Deputy Gerard?"

"Just fine," Gerard drawled, nodding his head as if for emphasis. "And how are you boys getting on?"

"Us 'boys' are getting on just great." Kelly's smile died. "You know, I would never have expected to see you two guys palling around."

"Oh?" asked Kimble lightly.

"Though seeing you here like this I can imagine how you got your pardon, doc. Overstepping your bounds, deputy?"

Like startled black swans, Gerard's brows rose. "You think _I_ had something to do with Dr. Kimble's pardon? Like _what_?!"

Kimble clicked his tongue, drawing Kelly's attention back to him. "You haven't changed, have you, detective?" he observed. "Lucky for me the US Marshals Service was more interested in justice than in bumping me off."

The big, bluff cop visibly bristled. "You think being pardoned makes you _innocent_? You think—"

"It does," Gerard said softly, his unblinking stare as black as onyx. "It does make him innocent. Based on new evidence, supplied _not_ by the Chicago Police Department, Dr. Kimble was cleared of all charges and complaints and pardoned by the governor. You know that. _In fact,_ you've already been reprimanded by that very governor for poor judgment and conduct bordering on harassment, _Detective_ Kelly."

Kelly hissed, "How could you know—?"

The dropping of a pin would have reverberated in the dining room at that moment. Meals were forgotten, order-taking suspended, all eyes riveted on the four men. It occurred to Kimble that Wahlund's actor-nephew Ernie would have given his eyeteeth for such an attentive audience.

Gerard cocked his head to one side and added exasperatedly, "Just _what_ is it going to take to get _through_ to you guys?"

A little wild-eyed, Kelly opened his mouth to retort, but was forestalled by Rosetti's hand on his forearm. Angrily, he threw it off.

"Come on, man," Rosetti insisted. "Let's just go, okay?"

Kelly tugged the lapels of his jacket across his formidable girth. His face was brilliantly red, his lips belligerently pursed, giving him a slightly porcine look. He shot Kimble a last, vicious glare, then began to push his way through the crowded floor, careering off seated people and tables with furious disregard, Rosetti strewing insincere apologies in his wake.

"Well, that was fun," Gerard said, his flippant tone concealing little of his irritation.

"Was he really reprimanded by the governor?" Kimble asked.

At that moment Ethel reappeared, slapped two mugs of coffee onto the table, flipped open her order pad, and demanded their selections. Before either man could answer, she scolded Gerard, "Sam, I don't know why you talk to those jerks! Bums, the pair of them."

"I know, Eth," Gerard concurred. "I know."

Her brows danced up and down. "You enjoyed it. I saw you from over there." She flipped a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "I saw your face, you little devil, and you _enjoyed_ it!"

Gerard pleaded, "Okay, Ethel, I did. I enjoyed it. Now just take our orders, will you? The doc's hungry. And so am I." He looked up; the other diners ducked before his raking glance, as sharp and unwelcome as a sliver of glass.

Determined to have the last word, the waitress purred, "You stud muffin, you." Then she turned to Kimble, scribbling something on her pad. She winked at him. "What'll you have, doc? I know what Mr. Macho wants; same thing he always gets."

A few minutes later, Ethel moved on, collecting orders from her other customers. "Nice lady." Watching her progress across the floor, Kimble added pensively, "By the time the food gets here, they'll be hauling me out on a stretcher."

Mug in hand, Gerard said unconcernedly, "You're made of tougher stuff than that."

"After today, I'm beginning to think you're right." Resilience seemed to be Kimble's middle name these days; not even the wretched scene with Kelly and Rosetti had dampened his spirits. "So tell me. Did the governor _really_ reprimand him?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"It was overdue. They're both thugs."

"Hm." The caffeine was starting to take effect; Kimble could feel his brain cells reviving one at a time. "If you need someone to crew your boat again, just let me know."

Gerard regarded him consideringly. "Okay."

Their dinner was delivered soon afterward. Kimble ate ravenously, finding the lovingly prepared but plain fare delicious and filling. When the last of their plates had been cleared away, they lingered over coffee, their conversation idle and inconsequential.

Later, outside Kimble's apartment building, Gerard declined his offer of a nightcap, exempting himself on grounds of exhaustion. He did request a rain-check. Understanding, Kimble sent him on his way, then ascended the few steps leading into the main entrance. Just before passing under the portico, he glanced up at the night sky. Inhaling deeply, he began to whistle softly under his breath.

Detectives Kelly and Rosetti notwithstanding, it had been a perfect day.

* * * * *

Following a do-nothing Sunday committed to assuaging assorted aches and bruises, Kimble drove into the parking lot outside the high school promptly at five-thirty Monday morning. The cool air of night clung to the earth, putting lie to the warmth that was forecast for the day.

At a minute past the half hour while Kimble sunned himself against the palely lit side of the building, a small, foreign car pulled up. Curious, he watched while the driver emerged from the vehicle. Tall, lean, his blond hair severely pulled back in a pony-tail, it was Noah Newman who appeared, not Sam Gerard.

Clad in running togs, Newman bounded up to him. "Am I late?" he asked.

"No," Kimble assured him. "You weren't expected at all."

Confidently undismayed, Newman said, "I'm taking Sam's place. He's flying Con Air to Philly."

Kimble waved him alongside, strolling purposefully toward the dirt track. "'Con Air?'"

"The USMS owns a few planes, including a couple of 727s, to fly deputies and prisoners back and forth for court appearances, WITSEC transfers, that sort of thing."

"You have to _fly_ prisoners to court?"

"All the time." Newman easily matched Kimble's pace, falling into a loose-limbed lope. "Half the time, we place federal offenders in county facilities—there's just no room for them in the federal lockups. Sam got word early this morning that he was booked on a flight to Philadelphia."

"Early? Five thirty is early, Noah. When was he told?"

"About midnight. He had to be at Midway two hours ago."

"So—Is keeping me company in Sam's place—" Kimble gestured at Newman's attire. "—part of your job description?"

"Everything's my job description," Newman said testily. "Comes with being a G-5."

"Civil Service rating?"

"Yeah. Probationary."

"For how long?"

"Another ten months. I joined the Chicago office the beginning of March."

"I see." Contemplating the ease with which he could run if he had Newman's young legs supporting his forty-something body, Kimble lied only a little when he said, "Well, I appreciate the company."

"Thanks, doc." Newman's breath plumed in front of him, forming soft, fast-dissipating clouds that vanished almost as quickly as they formed. "It isn't really—well, you know—part of the job. Being here, I mean."

Mesmerized by the pinks and oranges of a spectacular dawn, Kimble let his complacent silence encourage Newman to continue.

"Like I said, Sam asked me to let you know that he wouldn't be here today. _And_ that he'll probably be gone the rest of the week. But I could've called you. Left a message on your home phone, or at your office."

"Hm." Unreasonably disappointed to hear that Gerard would be gone so long, Kimble did not at once register the real core of Newman's rambling statement. "There's something else you want to tell me," he realized. 

"Gehti. Been thinking about him. What you must've thought."

That brought Kimble's head around. "And what's that?"

"That Sam was probably the one who shot him."

"He wasn't?"

"No."

"Was it you?"

Somberly, Newman said, "Yeah." His face darkened. "But nobody enjoys a shooting. Not any of us, not even Sam."

"That's reassuring," Kimble said.

"There was a prisoner on the bus with you. Copeland. Do you remember him?"

"I remember Copeland." The big man had taken the manacles off Kimble's legs, had given him the ability to escape. Without Copeland, Kimble would never have found out about Sykes, Nichols, Devlin-Macgregor; would never have avenged Helen's murder or cleared his own name; would not be here, now, running free. Yes, he remembered Copeland.

"Sam had to kill him when we moved in to re-arrest him. Because of me. Because—I did something stupid. I was so angry at him at the time. He was so damn unfeeling, so quick to pull the damn trigger." Newman glanced away, looking very pale save for cheekbones that were stained red with exertion and the frosty sting of early morning. "It was only later, when I was talking with Poole about it that I began to understand. I mean, even at the time we busted Copeland, I saw Sam's face, but I just didn't realize how much it bothered him."

"And when you shot Gehti?"

Newman let out a sudden breath. "I didn't throw up on anything. But I felt—I felt really strange for a few days."

"But you didn't hesitate to shoot. For that matter, you wouldn't hesitate now."

"No. No, I wouldn't. I went through the training at Glynco, doc. You learn how to react fast or you don't even make it to G-5."

"So," Kimble suggested quietly, "it must be something you adjust to. Like a doctor or nurse and the sight of blood."

Newman's lip curled. "Not exactly the same thing."

"No?"

"You operate to save people," Newman said slowly. "To help them. Never to hurt them. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying we do. In fact, we're always more afraid that someone will shoot us, rather than the other way around. But we also know that we _might_ have to kill, so we have to be ready to kill."

"Get to the point, Noah."

"The point is, Sam didn't want to shoot Copeland any more than I wanted to shoot Gehti. Any more than Sam wanted to shoot you."

Stoically, Kimble stared straight ahead. Too bad he had not begun his run at five-thirty on the dot. Probably, though, Newman would have followed him.

"I only wanted to tell you that," Newman struggled on, "because if it'd been me, if someone I'd become friends with had ever tried to kill me, I'd like to know that there'd been no—"

"No what?" Kimble interjected, anger edging his voice.

"No fun in it, no thrills, no _enjoyment_ —you know what I mean?"

"Just part of the job."

They ran two laps in silence. Finally, Newman said brusquely, "Sam likes you. I know he regrets what happened."

"Thanks, Noah," Kimble said flatly.

Newman produced a low, frustrated growl. "Akbari told me you were upset about Gehti's shooting. I thought if you knew it was me, you wouldn't hold it against Sam."

Kimble shuddered deep inside.

"Shit," Newman exclaimed plaintively. "I guess I shouldn't've said anything."

Finding no reason to argue this statement, Kimble did not begin to try. The running consumed him; he refused to think of anything else. On one level of his mind, he expected Newman to veer off, to return to the car. But the deputy stayed with him, tenacious beyond Kimble's expectations.

As they came down the last lap, Newman said dejectedly, "I'm sorry."

Caught between irritation and pity, Kimble found it in himself to propose a compromise. "You don't say anything about this, neither will I. Okay?"

Newman nodded without enthusiasm. "Yeah. Thanks."

The deputy passed on Kimble's suggested round of stretches, muttering something about the time. He made a sprint for his car as soon as they left the track. Waiting until Newman had safely gone, Kimble at last conceded a small, bruised smile, his embarrassment as profound as his sense of outrage. _My God, what would Sam say about this?_ But he had no intention of relating this little episode to Gerard, having promised not to. And he considered, as he unlocked the car door and pulled it wide, that Akbari and Newman, both young and very callow, probably deserved each other.

* * * * *

The week progressed uneventfully. Patient demands subsided; no new cases required Kimble's involvement during the first three days. All of his continuing patients remained stable or showed steady improvement. Wednesday evening, at home before seven for the first weeknight in nearly two months, Kimble decided to pass on the usual medical journal and take up instead his "reparations" list, which while not forgotten had definitely taken a backseat while he had focused on re-establishing his career.

The list of those he had wronged now numbered fifteen. Not, on the surface, a vast quantity; but to Kimble, it spoke of more misdeeds than he had previously committed in the whole of his life.

Some of them would be easily redressed. Maybrink & Sons, out of whose truck he had filched a pair of soiled work overalls; Harris Community Hospital for the suture kit, medications, jacket, and physician's stethoscope to which he had helped himself; "Mr. Johnson," the elderly patient whose clothing, wallet (complete with address), shaving kit, and breakfast had facilitated his escape from Harris Community; the ambulance company which had suffered needless wear and tear of one of its precious vehicles to enable Kimble's flight; the unknown paramedic whose jacket he had worn into, and left inside, the labyrinthine tunnels servicing the dam, and where, in all likelihood, it remained to this day; the volunteer search and rescue team called in to drag the spillway beneath the dam and to comb the woods downriver from it—at debilitating cost, he suspected; the tiny convenience store from which he had lifted a bottle of hair dye and a pair of scissors to alter his appearance; Desmondo Jose Ruiz, who had briefly lost his identification card—and identity—to him; the landlord holding the property rented by Fredrick Sykes for losses relating to Kimble's break-in; and, the Downtown Hilton and Towers, which had lost the use of its northwest elevator until the skylight could be replaced. Not to mention one Deputy US Marshal Samuel Gerard, whose Model 22 Glock he had "borrowed" and sacrificed to the icy waters sluicing into the Barkley Dam spillway—possibly retrieved, but also possibly damaged beyond repair. Kimble had called around. Such a weapon could not be legally purchased in Chicago by private citizens. He might, however, talk one of Gerard's deputies into buying a replacement for him, using Kimble's money, of course. He suspected, though, that that might not be legal, either.

A little more difficult to reimburse might be the man whose clothing he had lifted from the back of an unattended camper; Cook County Hospital's Myoelectric/Prosthesis Lab for the files and medical texts which Kimble had made unauthorized use of—and which he hoped had been returned to the hospital following his hasty departure from the postage-stamp-sized rented apartment where he had last used them; and, the county lockup for damages rendered to two bulletproof glass panels.

Hardest of all would be finding a way to make restitution to the family of the El transit police officer who had died because of him. It was Fredrick Sykes who had pulled the trigger; but Kimble could not deny ultimate responsibility. Had his journey to the state prison concluded according to plan, the transit officer would be alive today.

Kimble spent an hour on the phone obtaining addresses for Maybrink & Sons, Harris Community Hospital, Woody's All-Nite convenience store, and the ambulance firm that serviced Harris Community. While talking to a driver for the ambulance company, he managed to learn the name of the jacket's owner as well as the amount needed for compensation—not only for the replacement value of the jacket, but for his unauthorized use of their ambulance. By a stroke of luck, he even managed to reach the purchaser for the Hilton, who was able to tell him to the penny how much the elevator skylight had cost. That same individual, a pleasant-voiced, cheerful woman, advised him that insurance had already paid and he was under no obligation. Yet she seemed not at all surprised when Kimble insisted upon taking down the hotel's remittal address, and before disconnecting had even spoken happily about his pardon.

For the rest of the evening, Kimble jotted notes of apology, wrote out and signed checks, and addressed envelopes. When at last he stumbled into bed, he was consoled by the knowledge that he had cut his list in half. Perhaps, before the weekend, he would acquire all the information needed to shift this particular burden off his shoulders.

In any case, it provided a desperately needed focal point. Without work to command his attention, he found it difficult to dismiss the latest crop of strange, but compelling specters that peopled his nights and companioned his days. Nor had there been anyone to share his run this morning, neither Gerard nor Newman, though the latter had been sighted at Akbari's table in the cafeteria over lunch. Kimble had nodded politely to them on his way out, Akbari responding with a friendly smile while Newman raised a hand, his face sober, a soft burn of color reddening his cheeks.

* * * * *

"Carrot cake!" Wahlund exclaimed. "God, it smells like heaven."

"One of my better efforts," Kimble agreed.

"And you look like hell."

"Love you too, Kath."

"You going to tell me about it?"

"No. You going to quit asking?"

"No. Ernie's opening in a new play at the Palace. Want to come with me opening night?"

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Tonight?"

Mouth full, Wahlund hummed her confirmation.

"Yeah, I suppose. Yeah, that'd be great."

Wahlund swallowed then laughed, her voice soft and throaty. "Don't sound so enthusiastic. When's your friend due back?"

"Don't know." Kimble caught himself too late; at the least, he should have asked who she was referring to. Looking disgruntled, he conceded, "Maybe tomorrow."

"How's work?"

"Too slow. You?"

"More than I can handle. I can't wait for next week. The sand, the ocean breezes, fresh seafood."

Stirring his coffee, Kimble said, "Key West. It'll already be hot this time of year."

"I think I'll survive."

"All those naked bodies," he said ingenuously. "How will you ever bear up?"

"Is that 'bear' up or 'bare' up?"

"Knowing you, probably both."

Wahlund studied him a long moment, her eyes critically assessing. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

"Because you've slept with more women than I have?" 

"Ooh, you are grumpy."

Kimble laughed. He was tired, and he was grumpy. "Sorry."

"You ready to try the dating scene again?" She took hold of his free hand and cradled it in both of hers. "It's past time, Richard. You know that."

"No. I—" He squeezed her fingers. "Just not something I'm ready to deal with."

"Helen would want you to."

"Helen would want me to be happy," Kimble corrected her. "I don't think dating is necessarily going to accomplish that."

"Because of him?" Wahlund asked.

"Him?" 

"Him. Gerard."

_"Kath."_

Wahlund paused, mascaraed lashes briefly shuttering her eyes. "Have you thought about talking to Ortiz?"

Torn between resentment and acute disquiet, Kimble said nothing until he had his temper rigidly under control. "Why? What makes you think I ought to talk to our famous shrink?"

She gestured at the large square of carrot cake wrapped in cellophane beside her plate. "This used to be a way of helping you unwind. Like when you'd gone home so late Helen had already fallen asleep but you were still zooming. Or when a case got under your skin and you needed a little time to yourself. You'd fire up the oven maybe once or twice a year. Not like now. Not so often."

Letting loose a sigh, Kimble tried to frame a reply; but his thoughts had scattered to the four corners of his mind, hiding there in the shadows and refusing to come out.

"Was it prison?" Wahlund asked gently. "Did something happen there?"

"What d'you think, Kath? Lots happened there."

"Richard." She touched the back of his hand, a light, undemanding touch. "I don't mean to badger you. I'm talking about something or someone who really upset you. Something or someone who did something to interfere with your sleep. I mentioned Gerard because I _know_ he upset you."

In an instant, Kimble's defenses were down. Wahlund had stepped back from the subject he had yet to come to terms with only to set off alarms he had somehow forgotten even existed.

_Bradburn._

"Richard?" Wahlund was watching him with some concern.

"Yeah," Kimble dragged the word out on the wave of a slow exhalation. "Jesus, Kath." During his final six weeks in the county lockup, a cellmate had transferred out, another had transferred in. "So much has gone on since then," he explained. "It must sound lame, but I guess I managed to put it completely out of my head."

"What?"

"There was a guy. Bradburn. Prisoner who made my life miserable during the month and a half before I was moved."

Wahlund waited.

"He wanted my ass in the worst way." A grim satisfaction settled on his drawn features. "I wouldn't let him have it. Made him all the more determined."

"So that when you went to sleep—"

"He'd make his move. Or try to. He was a cunning son of a bitch, I'll give him that. But, no, he never succeeded."

"Your insomnia—"

He acknowledged, "Which has always been bad—"

"He made it worse."

"Yeah." Kimble shook his head, amazed at himself. "Everything changed so drastically in so short a time—going from the county lockup to Menard; getting free; being here—" His hand sketched a loose circle in the air between them. "Still, you'd think I would've guessed the reason for this latest bout."

"Unless," she remarked with clinical detachment, "you thought something else was behind it."

She was right, of course. He admired the deft way in which she had brought the conversation back round to the beginning. Kimble arched a brow at her, affording himself a few seconds to control the abrupt flurry of butterflies rising in his stomach. "Lucky for me you only _seem_ to be able to read my mind."

Wahlund was not diverted. "Well, _something's_ been bothering you. That's obvious."

Tiredly, Kimble nodded. "I've had a few weird dreams."

"About Bradburn?"

He almost lied; he almost refused to answer because the truth would give too much away. Instead, he replied succinctly, "No."

Wahlund considered this without reaction. She said gently, "You've always had weird dreams, Richard. For that matter, everybody does sometimes. It's the way you've always responded to being woken up by them that's different." Her eyes shone with affection laced with exasperation. "I know you don't want to talk about your nightmares; and I'm not going to ask you to. I'm only saying that they've been sufficiently unsettling to make _you_ think they're the main reason for your insomnia. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to talk things over with—"

"Ortiz."

"Yes." She shrugged. "On the other hand, maybe knowing what the problem is—the cause of your sleeplessness, I mean, Bradburn and his perverse aversion training—well, maybe you'll find a way to work it out on your own."

Half abashed, half defiant, Kimble muttered, "Never cared a whole lot for shrinks."

"I remember. And more than that you've always taken that old dictum too much to heart."

He raised his brows.

"'Physician, heal thyself?'" she prompted.

"Oh, yeah. That one."

* * * * *

The liquid crystal display on Kimble's watch told him it was thirty seconds later than the last time he had looked. He scratched his forearm, having bared it to the cool, but rapidly warming, morning air, and directed his attention once more to the road in front of the high school. Frowning to himself, he relented; he would extend Gerard another thirty seconds before removing himself to the track. In ten minutes, it would be six o'clock.

It was silly to expect Gerard to put in an appearance. Newman had told him that he was due in around midnight; but it was also Newman who had warned him that Gerard might show up on the track a little late. It had not occurred to Kimble to ask early yesterday evening on his way out of the building whether there was a possibility that the deputy marshal would not show up at all.

Perhaps he had not wanted to hear the answer.

Kimble's frown deepened; the thirty seconds were almost gone. Just as he shoved the sleeve of his sweatshirt down onto his wrist to conceal the offending watch face, Gerard's black sedan, traveling at an unconscionable rate of speed for an officer of the law not engaged in the execution of his duties, swung into the drive, rolled onto the gravel apron, and skidded to a halt alongside Kimble's Mercedes. Deputy Marshal Gerard himself emerged from the vehicle, kitbag in hand, towel draped around his neck, and after slamming the door behind him, strode up to where Kimble stood.

"Richard, I told you _not_ to wait!" he said briskly. The bag dropped with a thud onto the seat of the wooden bench they had singled out for their use some weeks before and was half-covered an instant later by his white terry-cloth towel.

"When did you tell me that?" Kimble noticed that Gerard had an inch-long cut on the left side of his forehead near the hairline. Not deep, and only slightly bruised.

"On your machine. Left a message about one o'clock this morning." His face went blank. "Isn't that why you were waiting?"

Gesturing Gerard alongside him, Kimble turned toward the track. "Haven't bothered to play the tape back yet. Was going to do that when I got home this morning. What happened to your head?"

"Then _why_ were you waiting?" Gerard was full of energy, congeniality fairly emanating from him. For no apparent reason, he gave Kimble a hearty, and mildly winding slap between the shoulders.

Infected by Gerard's ebullience, Kimble blurted, "Good to see you, too." He swallowed. "Newman told me."

"Newman?"

"Last night when he met Akbari after work." Gravel crunched loudly beneath the soles of their running shoes. It was overcast, clouds ripe with rain hanging low overhead. "He and Akbari are going out. As in dating."

"Oh?"

"Akbari's my resident," Kimble refreshed his memory. "What happened to your head?"

"I know who your resident is."

"Great. So what about your head?"

"What, this little scratch?"

"That."

"Nothing much to tell. Except that Giannelli, the pilot of the 727, doesn't handle puddle jumpers as well as the big planes."

"Turbulence?"

"Nah. Landing. Hit my head on the edge of the overhead bin door."

"During _landing_?"

"Yes, Richard, during landing. I was standing at the time, because I wanted to get off the plane."

Resisting the urge to state the obvious—and obviously expected—"you know better," Kimble remarked, "Doesn't look that bad." Craning closer for a better view, he was able to see that in fact very little damage had been done. "Although it probably bled pretty heavily."

"Yep," Gerard said with satisfaction. "Made a mess of Giannelli's plane. He wasn't thrilled about having to arrange the clean-up. Told him if he'd been a better pilot, it wouldn't've happened in the first place."

"And how was Philadelphia?"

"Oh, lots of fun. Rained the whole time I was there."

"Get your inmate delivered okay?"

"Delivered and returned."

"You brought him back with you?"

A forbidding expression lay claim to Gerard's face. "That's the way it works. Rather than fix the court system—enforce the laws we have and dump plea bargaining—the government would rather budget funds for the US Marshals Service to own and fly a fleet of aircraft for the express purpose of transporting criminals across the country to meet their court dates."

"Must make for better security," Kimble observed, aiming to curb Gerard's ire. "No civilians on board to worry about."

"Security is one of the few arguments in its favor."

"You back for a while, then?"

"Hope so." Joined by instinct and past experience, they simultaneously increased their gait. "So what were you up to last night?" asked Gerard curtly.

"Went with Kathy Wahlund to watch her nephew's theatre group at the Palace."

"Any good?"

Kimble thought about it. "They're enthusiastic. It can't be easy trying to perform in front of a bunch of rowdy people in the middle of their dinners."

"Sounds like a special kind of torture," Gerard agreed. "How _is_ Dr. Wahlund?"

"Kath's fine. Never seems to change."

"You've known her a long time?"

"We signed on with Chicago Memorial the same year. I had a couple of cases that required her expertise within a few months of starting there. We hit it off. She and Helen did too." That of course, did not tell the half of it, Kimble mused. Wahlund had thought Helen one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen; for that matter, _Kimble_ had thought the same. Still, several years had passed before Wahlund had openly commented on her sexual orientation; it had not been a revelation. Wahlund was Wahlund, a good friend. From that day on, however, they had become even closer confidants, using each other's shoulder when something went askew in their personal lives. Kath had stuck with him throughout the trauma of Helen's death, his homicide accusation, and conviction, and had been one of the few people he had trusted to help him unravel the tapestry of lies surrounding Helen's murder.

Aware all at once of Gerard's not-so-subtle sidelong regard, Kimble came back to his present company with a chagrined start. "But you knew that," he pointed out. "Kath was one of the people you interviewed when you were trying to find me."

"Yeah, that's right," Gerard said. "Guess I forgot."

Kimble's face mirrored his disbelief. Like Wahlund, he was of the opinion that the deputy marshal never forgot anything.

"And how was your week, Richard?"

"Unusually quiet," Kimble replied. He launched into a brief synopsis of his cases, all of which had been unremarkable and completely successful. "Quietest week I've had since taking up surgical knots again."

"If that's so," Gerard said trenchantly, "why do you look as though you've had five minutes sleep in the last five days?"

The question took Kimble off guard. "Oh—other things came up. You know, personal," he replied evasively.

"Hm." They undertook a lap in silence. As they came round once more to their starting marker, Gerard announced, "I'm going out on the boat this weekend. You can choose the day if you want to crew."

"Sunday," Kimble said, without hesitation. "I'm on call tomorrow. Akbari and the Chief Resident will be covering the day after."

"Want me to pick you up again? Or would you rather meet at the marina?"

"If we're going to make a day of it, no reason to take two cars." A thought leapt to the forefront of his mind. "In fact, come over to my place about nine, and we'll have breakfast before we head out."

"Now that's an offer I absolutely will not refuse." Gerard inhaled deeply, lifting his face to receive the first soft drops of rain. It was an eccentricity Kimble had witnessed before, and one he found curiously disarming. The big, gruff deputy could display an unexpected artlessness which, to the uninitiated, might seem at odds with his buttoned-down, tailored appearance and astringent manner. "I understand," Gerard interrupted his wool-gathering, "that you bake."

Kimble choked down a groan. "And I can guess who passed on that little bit of news. Your boy, Newman."

"Sure. He also said that he took my place Monday morning."

"He did." Since he was quite certain that Newman had said nothing more about that morning, Kimble said, "He's got young legs."

Gerard gave a bark of laughter; it melted into a whiskey-hoarse chuckle. "Everything about that boy is young. But he's okay."

"Akbari certainly seems to think so."

After a moment's reflection, Gerard questioned, "You don't think they're serious, do you?"

"Who knows?" Kimble demurred. "They've only known each other a few weeks."

"She seems capable," Gerard remarked. He wiped rivulets of rain off his face with both hands. The sky was rich with it, elongated drops mixed with mist. Grass and trees verging the track were luminescently green, as though lit from within with a verdant flame. The school colors, red and blue, applied in wide geometric patterns on the sides of the buildings, leapt out of the greyness, as if newly painted.

"Capable as well as very promising and very ambitious," Kimble amplified. "I think she'll make a good doctor."

"Cornbread."

"What?"

"I'll cop for dinner Sunday evening if you find the time to bake some cornbread."

"Sam—" Kimble shook raindrops from his hair. "A lot of the baking I do comes out of a box."

"Newman says you do a good job."

"Newman talks too much."

"With honey. Keeps it from sticking in the throat."

"Sounds like I ought to buy dinner and let _you_ do the baking."

"Not even out of a box," Gerard said darkly. "I'm all thumbs in the kitchen. Well, except for scrambled eggs. I make outstanding scrambled eggs." He offered a persuasive grin. "You bake, I'll buy. Deal?"

"If I find the time, yeah." Kimble turned his own face toward the sky. The gentle wetness soothed the heat of his exertions. At this moment he was quietly but thoroughly happy. "You're nuts, you know that?"

"Ah, well, we can't all be perfect."

* * * * *

Kimble's plans for the weekend were shot down both literally and figuratively by the admission of a gunshot wound patient just after six that evening. He was in the process of finishing up his dictation when his name came blaring out of the loudspeaker in the hall outside his office. It was rare that any but the attending physician was paged to the emergency room; for Kimble to be summoned in such a fashion boded ill for his prospects of an early night.

He was out of his chair and hurtling down the hall before the page could be repeated. Thirty ticks of the secondhand later, he was stepping out of the stairwell and calculating the speediest route to ER7.

There he found a small room crowded with people. Kimble identified the emergency room attending, humorless and pragmatic Dr. Wilson; cardiac specialist Greene; trauma nurses Taylor and La Clede; and his off-and-on nemesis, anesthesiologist Victor Morgan.

"Glad you could join us, doctor," Morgan said without sarcasm. "Afraid we're going to need your help with this one."

"Twenty-five-year-old male. We've only just gotten him stabilized," Greene stated in precise, clipped tones. "Your part is the gunshot wound to the left inguinal region. Transected the common femoral artery just below the iliac but kindly left the vein intact; struck the femur; splintered off a few small chips which in turn lacerated the profunda femoris. We've clamped that off to control bleeding. There appears to be other, less severe A/V involvement."

"Did you shunt the femoral?"

"Yes."

"What's his blood volume?"

"Excellent—considering. This young man had the great good fortune to be accompanied by someone who knew to apply consistent pressure to the proximal end of the severed artery; arrived in the ambulance with him, in fact. Molly?" The technician overseeing the autologous transfusion equipment gave him a range.

"That good?" Kimble whistled, impressed. "There's more though, isn't there?"

The condition of the supine form commanding their attention told Kimble that there was much more. The patient, positioned half-way onto his left side facing the opposite wall, features hidden, hair contained in a sterile plastic cap, his damaged leg extended forward, the healthy right one taking most of his weight on thickly rolled towels, nevertheless had lost a considerable amount of blood; it painted his flanks and back and pooled on the stainless steel examination table beneath his body.

Greene recited, "Tension hemopneumothorax owing to laceration of the lower lobe of the right lung. Another low velocity bullet. Penetrated the thorax sub-mediastinally, exited—well, almost exited—between the fifth and sixth ribs. Got it out with tweezers. Except for collapsing the lung, the bullet missed everything critical." Kimble could see that entry had been made into the chest via a right anterolateral thoracotomy, the best route to the patient's perforated lung. Greene was at that moment suturing the front-to-back incision, a drainage tube culminating in a sterile collection bag that emerged from between uniformly placed stitches and taped to a pale, red-streaked flank. "The patient must have been falling backward and twisted almost sideways at the instant of impact. Slight mediastinal shift to the left before we went in and drained the blood and sealed the opening. We got him just as cardiogenic shock was setting in. As soon as the fluid was aspirated, all major signs of shock ceased." The steady, healthy bleep of electronicized heartbeats underscored his account of the patient's condition; it was unusual to see such potentially severe wounds tended so quickly. The patient could count himself extraordinarily fortunate.

"Is he stable enough to be moved to OR?"

"Thought you might want a look-see first," Morgan replied. "The femoral took a beating."

"Show me." Ungowned, only his face properly masked, Kimble stood at Wilson's shoulder to view the lightly draped inguinal area. Morgan was right. The temporarily shunted artery would need debriding and end-to-end suturing. Still, this type of wound did not involve the violent rupturing of surrounding tissues caused by temporary cavitation, commonly associated with high velocity bullet penetration. What Kimble faced here, by comparison, was a splinter ranked alongside a pike. Once the ends of the artery were rejoined, he could focus on the nicked branch artery.

"How long since the shooting?"

"Less than an hour."

Kimble reached around Wilson to feel the young man's ankle. It was cool, but the distal pulse was steady and easily palpable. Prolonged ischemia—more than six hours, being the rule—would cause irreversible vascular damage. The shunt, for the most part, obviated that concern, facilitating a dependable, if reduced, flow of blood to the network of vessels nourishing the lower limb. In fact, presuming he could proceed without delay, this patient stood an excellent chance of full recovery. "We've got the time to do this right," Kimble said. "Let's get him to the operating room."

Orderlies were summoned; they arrived just as Greene threw the last two knots. Kimble cited the particulars of the patient's transport needs, then questioned the two men to verify their understanding of his instructions. Morgan informed him that he would stay with the patient on the journey to the operating room.

Standing inside the elevator cab, impatiently eyeing the lighted floor indicator, Kimble realized that he had caught his second wind. This case, for all that it appeared fairly straightforward, was a suitable measure of his skills. His fingers tingled to be at the young man's injuries, to precisely and with his special mastery repair the damage so thoroughly and so meticulously that the patient would suffer no debilitating aftereffects.

With hands and arms scrubbed clean, gowned and gloved, Kimble strode into the operating room a very few minutes later. Morgan sat at the head of the operating table, checking the gauges of the anesthesia apparatus. The patient was draped and ready, only the lower left inguinal area and upper thigh exposed. The head of the surgical nursing team stood awaiting directions, her staff located at strategic stations around the room. Akbari was nowhere in evidence; in her place was Dr. Matthew Carlisle, the hospital's other vascular surgeon. At sight of him, Kimble's brows rose.

"If you're here, why am I?" he asked tactlessly. "And where's my resident?"

Unoffended, Carlisle said, "I'm on call. Your resident is assisting Wilson on another emergency case; our Chief Resident has the evening off. Do you want me to have him paged?"

"No," Kimble said, accepting the soft rebuke for his hasty tongue. "Of course not. I'm grateful you're here." It came to him a second later that Carlisle had not really answered his question. If Carlisle was on call, what justification was there for summoning Kimble as well? Under normal circumstances—

The anesthesiologist intruded on his thoughts. "Ready when you are, Richard."

Kimble gave the other man a quick look. Another first. Morgan had called him by his given name. Effectively distracted, Kimble said, "Yeah? Here we go, then."

The two surgeons sat poised on specially designed stools which allowed them to work for long periods of time utilizing magnifying lenses called loupes and microscope apparati without undue stress or fatigue. Kimble had not worked with Carlisle before, but casual conversation in which his name had been mentioned had indicated that the man was a capable though uninspired surgeon. He was a recent addition to CMH's stable of doctors—that is, he had not been on staff eighteen months earlier to witness Kimble's fall.

"What do you know about this guy, Victor?" Kimble asked. Observing standard technique, he clamped off both ends of the severed artery about an inch above the transection. An anti-clotting agent was being administered by intravenous drip to slow fibrin build-up. It would do the patient no good to repair his circulatory system only to dam the flow with clotted blood.

"Brought in with two others," Morgan replied. "One DOA, the other with a dislocated shoulder and concussion from bullet slap."

After letting blood drain from the torn ends of the artery, Kimble called for the nurse to flush them out with heparinized saline. When she had finished, he began to debride one tattered stub while Carlisle took care of the other. "So who is he? Drug-dealer, gang-member, innocent bystander, or cop?"

"Cop."

"And the people brought in with him?"

"Another cop and the bad guy."

"Just a normal day in the city," Carlisle murmured. "This side's clean."

Kimble placed the first stitch, hooking it through both ends and gently bringing them together. He sank the second on the opposite side, tying both off with four throws. "The bad guy the DOA, I hope?"

"For once, yeah," Morgan said dourly. "Doesn't happen often enough, if you ask me."

"So who's asking?" Carlisle remarked with a beatific smile.

Kimble ignored their faintly acidic repartee, letting it ebb and flow around him. His concentration grew as he finished suturing the artery. He released the distal clamp to allow backflow to fill the lumen to test for leaks, then slowly and gently opened the proximal clamp where the greatest pressure would exist. The sutures held perfectly. From there he moved on to the deep femoral artery, employing the same procedure, but in this case making use of a section of vein extracted from the right leg by Dr. Carlisle to form a patch over the damaged branch artery. He stitched it into place then subjected his repair work to the same test. A tiny leak surfaced; left to itself, fibrin formation would be the natural—and possibly disastrous—consequence. Accordingly, Kimble chanced a last suture. It held. Thereafter, he turned his attention to unstaunched smaller blood vessels, bringing them under control via the use of both ligature and diathermy. 

At the end of the second hour, Kimble placed the last suture that closed the wound, surveyed the uniform stitches with an approving nod, and took a deep breath. "How's he doing, Victor?"

"Just fine."

"Compartment pressure test?" Carlisle asked.

"Guess we better. It's been more than two hours, even if the common femoral was back in action well before then."

They took the time to run the test. "Thirty-five-point-two mmHg," Carlisle announced. "No fasciotomy necessary."

"Great," Kimble succumbed to a yawn. "I'm beat."

Standing at the sink a few minutes later, Kimble shook his hands dry and reached for a towel. Carlisle, gloveless, appeared with one in hand.

"There are some people waiting for you in the operating suite," Carlisle reported.

"This guy's family?"

"Friends. Co-workers." He sighed. "Richard, the patient's name is Noah Newman. I'm told you know him."

Kimble stared at him. " _Newman?_ Of course I know him." Suddenly Carlisle's wary expression made sense. "I see. You knew that, didn't you? You all did."

"Richard, listen—" He quailed a little before Kimble's angry expression. "You know it's against regulations to perform surgical procedures on friends or family—but the people who brought him in _demanded_ you."

"The other 'cop,'" Kimble breathed. "What's _his_ name?"

"Samuel Gerard," Carlisle said unhappily. "Sorry, Richard. I'd've told you sooner, but they warned me that he's a good friend of yours."

Chucking the towel into the bin, Kimble snapped, "He is." Hearing the bite in his voice, he caught himself. They—Carlisle, Morgan, Greene, and Wilson—had done him an incalculable favor. He trusted no one more than himself in the arena of vascular work. Ignorant of the patient's identity, he could be relied upon not to let personal feelings interfere. Under no other circumstances could his colleagues have sanctioned his involvement. Through their conspiracy, they had struck upon the only solution that would prove satisfactory to all parties. He laid a hand on the other man's shoulder. "It's okay, Matt. And, thanks."

"It's really better you didn't know."

Kimble merely nodded. "Hospital regs. I understand."

Only two people awaited him in the visiting area. Kimble recognized both of them, though he had not seen Deputy Henry since that night outside the Hilton Towers. Kimble did not know his last name—or even if Henry was his last name.

"How is he, doc?" Biggs, the other deputy present, predictably was the first to speak. His suit and once-white shirt were liberally stained a brick red. Kimble had to search no further to know which of Newman's comrades had applied life-saving pressure to his damaged femoral.

"We're moving him to ICU right now. Everything went smoothly. We're just waiting to make sure that he shakes off the anesthetic okay." He raised his brows in puzzlement. "I guess I expected to find Poole with you."

"She's camped out on Sam's doorstep, next floor down," Biggs explained. "We were told he'd be shaking off the dope pretty soon, too. When can we see Newman?"

"To talk to him, tomorrow evening, earliest." Kimble drew an imaginary line from nose to chest. "He's got a tube down his trachea delivering oxygen till tomorrow morning at least. He's sedated. Won't know you're there. And he'll be in ICU for a day, possibly two."

"But he will be able to come back to work, won't he?" Henry asked. "You know, eventually?"

"I'd like to think so," Kimble replied. "But we'll know more in forty-eight hours." Clad in lightweight surgical cotton, he was retroactively feeling the chill of the operating room. He repressed a shiver. "Tell me what happened to them."

Biggs pursed his lips. "We were working a warrant. They got into a tight spot; everything came apart. Sam started to go down; Noah covered him and took his fire. For a minute there, we thought they were both dead."

 _Noah could have been,_ Kimble reflected, but recognized the senselessness of saying so to these men, who were undoubtedly all too aware of that fact. Death, after all, was a prospect they faced every day. What was it Newman had said? _"We're always more afraid that someone will shoot us, rather than the other way around."_ His shoulders aching beneath the weight of an immense weariness, Kimble asked, "Which of you got him?"

"Him?"

"The guy who shot Noah and Sam."

"Sam wasn't shot," Biggs objected. "He wrenched his shoulder some—"

"I heard he was grazed," Kimble elaborated. He tapped his head. "Here. But I haven't had a chance to verify that yet."

"Poole," Henry answered him. "Poole got the guy."

Kimble suffered no startlement or consternation—only gratitude. "I've told the nursing staff that you can have a look at Newman through the glass. Stay behind it, or you can't come back. Thirty seconds. Then you'll both have to go. It's long past visiting hours in ICU." In fact, visiting hours in ICU were the most liberal in the hospital; however, Kimble preferred that they find that out only after Newman had shown considerable improvement.

"Thirty seconds," Henry repeated, clamping onto Biggs' arm and herding him toward the door. "Thanks, doc."

Waving an absent-minded goodbye, Kimble was already on his way to the elevators. He waited tensely for one to appear in response to his peremptory button-pushing. After fifteen seconds, he took the stairs, remembering another time and place when stairs had hastened an encounter with Sam Gerard.

Exiting the stairwell, Kimble had a slightly angled view of the nurses' station a few meters away. Poole stood there, drinking a cup of coffee. Kimble wished briefly that he had had a chance to forewarn her. The coffee on this floor was legendarily awful. Her dark eyes fastened on him the instant he appeared. They remained on him while he covered the distance between them. "Hello, doc," she greeted him composedly. "Tell me Noah's okay."

"He came through surgery with flying colors. All the same, it'll be a few days before we can make a complete evaluation."

"But he is out of the woods, right?"

"For the moment, yeah. What's the news on Sam?"

"They wouldn't let me see him. And I won't leave till I do. He's going to ask about Noah. I know him."

There was no artifice about Poole. She meant what she said. Kimble assured her calmly, "I'll take care of it. Which room is he in?" Poole told him. "Right. Back in a second." At the nurses' station, Kimble began to outline his situation. As soon as he spoke his name, however, he was apprised that Gerard had wakened from the anesthetic following reduction of his dislocated left shoulder; he was still groggy and slightly concussed. Dr. Wilson had already prepared the staff for Kimble's arrival. Poole would be allowed to visit the deputy marshal also, but only for a couple of minutes. Emphasizing his thanks with a charming smile that was far more devastating than he knew, Kimble returned to the woman who had saved Gerard's and Newman's lives and flagged her alongside him.

"We'll have to keep this short," he said firmly. "Two minutes, and you're out of here. Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise." She preceded him into the darkened, semi-private room. Kimble indicated that Gerard occupied the far bed, then followed her around the almost ceiling-to-floor cloth partition that separated the two spaces.

Gerard lay with his head turned toward them, his right hand resting on the soft blanket, the other peeking out of the special sling that encased his left arm and which held it clasped close to his chest. His face was chalk-white, his features slightly drawn, as though pain commanded his attention even in sleep.

Silently, Kimble took up the chart hanging from a hook at the foot of the bed. He swiftly glanced over the scribbled remarks, finding the written confirmation concerning the deputy marshal's condition somehow more reassuring than the verbal reports tendered to date. Signaling to Poole, he padded up to the head of the bed while she soundlessly mirrored his actions on the opposite side.

Without conscious thought, Kimble took up Gerard's right hand, moving his fingers to the artery under the thumb, seeking and effortlessly finding the pulse steadily working there.

Gerard's lashes flickered, eyelids slitting apart. "Ri—chard?" The voice was strained and a little perplexed, but recognizably Gerard's.

"Shh. I'm counting." The subsequently bemused expression that flitted across Gerard's face filled Kimble with quiet elation. "Heard you checked in last night," he advised him, voice low and deliberately modulated. Without doubt, Gerard would be suffering a monumental headache. "Thought I'd see how the accommodations suit you."

"They … don't," Gerard complained.

"Good. They're really not supposed to. How's the head?"

"Meat cleaver. Feels like … one's stuck … in it."

"Been kind of rough on your head lately, haven't you," Kimble murmured cheerily. "Shoulder?"

"Throbs. Is it … busted?"

"Dislocated. Was. A little coincidental muscle, tendon contusion. Nothing too serious. Helps that you were in good shape to start with. Wilson thinks you'll be okay—if you do what you're supposed to. Which means keeping your sling on till they say you can take it off. I mean it, Sam."

Gerard's face folded into an aggrieved expression that could be interpreted as comprehension of, if not compliance with, Kimble's dictum—or just a genuine response to his present discomfort. "Newman?"

"His doctor says he's doing fine," Poole said gently.

Gerard cautiously moved his head in her direction. "Poole. You're okay. Newman looked … bad."

"He was. But your friend here happened to be hanging around when Noah was brought in. Doctor Kimble took care of him."

Only Gerard's eyes shifted this time, heavy-lidded and glittering with misery, but no less intensely intimidating for all that. "You?"

"It's what I do," Kimble reminded him. He tucked the deputy marshal's hand under the covers. "He's young and strong. Biggs kept him from bleeding to death. If it had to happen, it couldn't've occurred under better circumstances."

"The idiot … could've been … killed."

"If he'd done what you told him," Poole said tartly, " _you'd_ be dead. Anyway, we got him; Colson, I mean."

"Did we?"

"And nobody else got hurt." Her mouth formed a tight line. "Big Jim's happy."

Gerard closed his eyes. "I'm so … relieved."

To Kimble, Poole said, "Jim Hanley is our head marshal. Sam loves him."

"I do," Gerard agreed tonelessly. "I love … him."

"Deputy Poole—" Kimble began.

She raised a hand. "The doc's chasing me out, Sam. Just want you to know I've got your pieces. Both of them. So don't you worry."

"Thanks." Gerard's lips curved into a faint, forced smile. "You shoot 'em … you clean 'em."

"Of course. Now, I'm outta here. See you tomorrow." She rested her fingers upon the back of his hand, a fleeting, almost involuntary touch. Her eyes sought Kimble's. "Thanks, doc."

She hurried out of the room. As the door closed behind her, Kimble turned back to the patient, only to find himself the object of Gerard's dark scrutiny.

"Tell me … about Newman." The words were spoken in a breathless whisper.

"He took a bullet through the lung," Kimble said, "and one through his thigh. Could've been bad but we got to him right away—like I told you."

"How long ...?"

"He'll be here for a week at least. He can probably take on light duty in two to three more. Or were you asking about yourself?"

The fingers of Gerard's free hand reappeared, clutching the upper folds of sheet and blanket, pushing it off his chest. "Only a scratch … here and there. No need … to keep me. Richard—"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"It's my job, Sam." Never, Kimble thought, had he seen Gerard so _still_. "By the way, I looked at your chart. Do you need something for the pain? It says you're allowed." Wordlessly, he drew the covers back into place.

Gerard's lips formed a tentative scowl; an all-out "no" was beyond him. Then strain rolled over him, visibly, like fog in off the lake. Steeling himself, he acquiesced, "Only … if you … insist."

"I do," Kimble said kindly. "Hang in there, Sam. One of the nurses will be in right away."

He left him then, knowing that Gerard would fight sleep so long as he was around. Then he did as promised, arranging a non-narcotic analgesic at the nurses' station, and waiting until the duty nurse went into Gerard's room and returned with the news that he had taken the dose and was settling down for the night.

Only then did Kimble give in to the exhaustion that had been lurking within, waiting for just such a moment as this. He found his way to his office, thoughts purposely blanked, changed into his street clothing, collected his personal effects, and headed for the elevator. In the deepening pitch of night, he drove home, dangerously stuporous and desperate for sleep.

He passed the high school where only this morning he and Gerard had renewed their acquaintance after a week's separation. Sunday they would have been out on the lake. But tonight's shooting had done more than inconvenience his weekend. As he pulled into the garage under the apartment building, he remembered Akbari. He had seen not a sign of her since late afternoon, and wondered how she would handle the news about Newman—though in all probability, she already knew. As he keyed the lock into his apartment, he contemplated giving her a call. But it was a passing thought. She might, after all, resent such presumption.

Taking the coward's way out, Kimble chose to do nothing. He would see his resident first thing in the morning. If she felt like talking, they could do so then. Unfortunately, Kimble's reserves had been expended. It did not occur to him that he had been surging with energy at the outset of Newman's surgery. Cumulative stress and weariness were not strangers to him, and he would not hold them entirely accountable for the zombie-like state he found himself in now. Having been told like that— Both Gerard and Newman. Given their line of work, though, it ought not to have come as a shock ….

The fact remained that almost without his noticing, he had become inordinately attached to Deputy US Marshal Samuel Gerard, and to a lesser extent, Gerard's G5 Noah Newman. So much so, the evening's events had struck Kimble like a blow. His reaction was unanticipated and hardly welcome. When had he begun to care? When had Gerard come to assume such disproportionate importance?

And what was he going to do now, he who had promised himself in prison that he would never again care deeply for another human being?

On that thought, he crawled into bed, dragged the bedclothes up to his chin, closed his eyes, and meditated, without much hope, on sleep. It overtook him with such stealth and suddenness Kimble never sensed the transition from wakefulness to slumber. Engulfed within its ebony, supple folds, he was held secure in its protective grasp until the first tentative overtures of dawn.

* * * * * 

Newman was fairly alert, propped up at an angle in his bed when Kimble arrived to examine him the next morning. His normally fair complexion was ashen; even with a transfusion, his blood volume was down almost a liter. Yet he brightened when Kimble walked into his room. A half-grin tugging at his mouth, he slowly raised a hand and slowly waved; still masked for oxygen therapy, he could not speak.

"Good morning, Noah." Kimble took up his chart and studied the night's record. "How're you feeling?"

Noah gave him a hard look. Then he carefully mimed weakness and pain in his chest and leg.

"To be expected when you throw yourself in front of moving bullets," said Kimble sunnily. Newman's stats were heartening; would that all of his patients were so predisposed to recovery. He set the chart aside and folded back the bedclothes. Despite his light touch, Newman grunted and gasped as Kimble probed the previous day's stitching; he twitched bad-temperedly when Kimble checked the temperature of his left foot by taking it firmly in hand.

"Uh! _Uh?_ "

"He's making sure you've got positive blood flow," Akbari's voice lectured unsympathetically from the door.

"Uh." For all that he could only grunt, injured dignity resonated in Newman's vocalizations. "Uhh?"

"Good enough for me," Kimble granted, sliding the offended limb back under the edge of the sheet.

Frustration beclouding his features, Newman pretended to grasp a pen which he then pretended to use to write on air. He turned his hands over, palms up, his demand voiceless but unambiguous.

"Just a second," Kimble placated him. He drew the ever-present notepad out of his pocket and transferred it, along with his ball-point, to Newman's impatient fingers.

 _How's Sam?_ Newman wrote. _You said you were going to examine him._ He displayed the note for Akbari.

She gave Kimble a hesitant look. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded, in reality as curious about Gerard's welfare as Newman. "Still got a headache, but that's not uncommon with concussion—even mild cases. He's doing better than you, Noah. Wilson's going to let him go home this morning."

Newman sighed and subsided into his pillows. _Good_ , he mouthed. Eyes clear and blue and only a little forlorn, he patted his chest. _What about me?_ A long finger pointed with unmistakable intention toward the door.

"You just got out of ICU." Akbari planted her hands on her hips. "You're lucky they took you off the ventilator this morning."

"I'll give you an estimate this evening." Newman made a grunting objection to Kimble's promise. "But expect three to four more days. And if you want something to be thankful for," Kimble added, "remember the sandbag you slept with last night."

Mutiny flickered across Newman's face. He touched the oxygen mask and indicated in no uncertain terms that he wanted it removed.

"Maybe later today. So far so good, but we have to be careful. Bullets are nasty things; and they cause even nastier infections." Kimble appended his comments to Newman's chart. "You're pumped full of narcotics, so you're feeling pretty good right now. That won't last, Noah. Give yourself a chance to heal, okay?"

Newman scowled as much as the mask would allow. Then, he took up pen and paper again.

Akbari read, "'You're the doctor who operated on me.'"

"One of them," Kimble corrected.

Newman stabbed a finger toward his injured leg, taking care not to make contact.

"Yes. But with Dr. Carlisle's help."

Exasperated, Newman threw up his hands. _Thank you,_ he said soundlessly, the movement of his lips visible through the clear plastic. The effort obviously exhausted him. He tried to take a deep breath; tears appeared in his eyes. Imagining what that lung must feel like, Kimble took pity on him.

"You're welcome." Kimble very gently jiggled the blanket-shrouded toes of Newman's healthy leg. "Get some rest, Noah. You'll be back at work soon enough. I guarantee you."

Akbari led the way out of the room, hiding a smile. "He's stubborn," she remarked under her breath.

"Wait'll the painkillers wear off."

Her smiled widened. She said off-handedly, "Gerard asked about you."

"Oh?"

"He's in a filthy mood."

"Yeah?"

She shrugged. "It wasn't directed at anyone in particular. He just wants out. _Now._ Said he hates hospitals." She tipped her head in the direction of Newman's room. "I can see where Noah gets it from."

"Can't say that I blame either one of them," Kimble observed.

"No."

* * * * *

Gerard was released at eleven-thirty; Kimble had no chance to visit him before he left the hospital. An eight-year-old boy was brought in while he was attending the morning's rounds. The child's arm had been severed at the elbow in a car accident. While not his only injury, it was by far the worst. An evaluation group was immediately formed to consider all aspects of the boy's case and to provide a timely and reasonable decision. Depending on what action was taken, the group would continue to monitor the outcome well beyond post-operative treatment—the child, in the hospital less than a half-hour, was already a long-term patient.

Kimble went into surgery just before ten; there he remained until after nightfall. The surgical team comprised the same members as those who had operated on Newman the day before, with the significant addition of Kimble's resident, Lydia Akbari. She only verified his already outstanding opinion of her. Capable and talented, she was also intuitive and intelligent; but more importantly, she absorbed helpful criticism with an objectivity that did her credit.

It was nearly nine when they retired from the operating room, their patient sporting a reattached forearm that had a good chance of developing full functionality—given time and extensive therapy. They collapsed in the doctors' lounge, drinking freshly brewed coffee and dawdling over sweet fruit danish pastries delivered by a local all-night deli a couple of hours before.

Akbari was silent; Kimble could see that she was preoccupied. Guessing what was on her mind, he murmured, "Time we had a look at Newman."

She gave him a glance from under her lashes. "He'd probably understand if you waited till morning."

"He _might_ understand. For that matter, he may have no choice." Kimble staggered to his feet. "Thank God I have tomorrow off. You?"

"Tomorrow and Monday," Akbari replied with uncomplicated joy. "To sleep uninterrupted—"

"Don't get used to it."

Together they ambled toward the door. Akbari reached it first; unselfconsciously, she pulled it open and held it wide for Kimble to pass through. "Have you?" she asked.

"Thanks." Kimble smiled softly to himself, reflecting upon her question. "There was a time, yeah."

Newman was still awake. At sight of them, he reached up and placed finger and thumb around the oxygen mask, hope shining in his tired eyes.

"Hello, Noah." Kimble went to his patient's chart, held it obliquely so both he and Akbari could read the day's stats. "Good." He indicated the readings describing lung volume and the results of his most recent bloodwork.

"Very good," Akbari agreed.

"Okay, Noah my man, we're going to remove some of your accessories. But I want to examine your incisions first."

Noah exuberantly nodded.

Determinedly thorough, Kimble worked from Newman's feet upward. There was no evidence of ischemia to be found in either leg, nor thrombosis or phlebitis. Newman tolerated the doctors' dual examination without reaction save for an occasional sharp inhalation. The drainage tube attached to his flank contained nothing but a very small amount of clear fluid—entirely normal. Both surgical sites were free of swelling and as clean as they could have hoped.

"Just the way I like it," Kimble breathed with satisfaction. "I think we can give you some relief. What was the time of his last film?" he asked Akbari.

"An hour ago. All clear."

"Great.This is the easy part."

Noah groaned with happiness.

"Don't try to speak," Akbari admonished him. "You had a trache tube just a day ago. Give your throat and larynx a chance to recover."

He closed his mouth and eyes and lay back heavily against the contoured hospital bed. "How's the pain?" Akbari asked.

A very pale hand wobbled weakly from side to side a couple of inches above the bedclothes before dropping with a quiet thump onto the mattress.

"Take care of it, Akbari," Kimble instructed. He patted Newman's shoulder. Blue eyes regarded him questioningly. "You're on your own tomorrow. Both Akbari and I are off. If we're needed, of course—"

"I'll, uh, be in for a few minutes," Akbari interrupted. "I'll stop by then." She flushed slightly, her dusky cheekbones turning to gold.

"Good to hear it," Kimble said sincerely. "Good night, Noah. Doctor."

Half an hour later, Kimble was home, skimming through the handful of mail that had accumulated in his absence. Something in a thickly packed, oversized mailer from Gutherie; a legal-size envelope so thick the flaps had been taped shut, from his real estate agent—the closing on the townhouse was scheduled for Monday; a couple of end-of-month statements of account. Nothing, to his mind, that could not wait until morning.

He went to bed.

* * * * *

Sunday morning brought unmistakable signs of summer; after all, June was only a few days away. Birdsong trilled outside his window, a meandering breeze stirred the maples, a wasp buzzed at the glass. Kimble heard most of it as a background orchestra for his unusually innocuous dreams, which continued far into the morning, almost to noon. Feeling drugged but rested, he forced himself out of bed just as the living room clock—bequeathed by Helen's maternal grandfather to Helen years ago—began to chime the hour.

After a long, steaming shower, Kimble padded to the kitchen. He picked at toast and boiled eggs. Afterward, he carried his orange juice into the living room, turned on the television set, and fell sound asleep sitting upright on the sofa.

The setting sun, slanting in through a west window, woke him with its brightness and heat. Blinded, he peered out, lay down to escape the sun's intensity, and drifted off again.

A little after seven, an old, syndicated detective show that had once been the delight of America, brought him out of a swirling haze of images to the staccato sounds of gunfire and angry shouts. Blearily, Kimble eyed the scene, then summoned the energy to turn the television off by remote control.

Much to his relief, this time he seemed to have shaken off the vestiges of killing fatigue. In fact, he felt refreshed and recharged. And hungry. As he made his way into the kitchen, he downed the remains of his orange juice, lukewarm but still palatable. His mind was at rest, he was more relaxed than he had been for days, and he had the last hours of the evening with which to do nothing at all.

Since his body clock thought it was morning again, Kimble cooked a second breakfast, though this one encompassed far more than boiled eggs and toast. Seated in the living room, his plate heaped with biscuits smothered in bubbling sausage gravy (out of a can); scrambled eggs with chunks of ham (the latter also out of a can), green peppers, mushrooms, and melted cheese; a dollop of fruit salad (canned again); strips of bacon crisped to perfection; and a short stack of golden toast gleaming with spread butter, Kimble plowed through the meal as though he had not eaten properly for months. His hunger assuaged, he cleared the table, poured himself a second cup of coffee, and settled down in the living room with Friday's and Saturday's mail.

He left Gutherie's and his agent's missives to last, arranging stacks as he decided which pieces needed immediate, or at least timely, action and those which could be safely discarded. As he suspected, the envelope from his real estate agent provided confirmation of what was needed for Monday's closing. Kimble would see that Gutherie had a copy, as he or one of his assistants would be representing Kimble during the transaction. This was a topic he and Gutherie had discussed some while back; the sooner the house was disposed of, the happier Kimble would be.

The contents of Gutherie's packet, while not unexpected but unwelcome all the same, shattered Kimble's peace of mind from one second to the next. He perfunctorily riffled through the paperwork enclosed, noted Gutherie's comments regarding the disposition of the funds involved, then stuffed everything back into the envelope in which it had arrived.

For a moment he continued to sit at the table, staring down at the typed label which bore his name. He did not understand himself. Why should this cause him so much more distress than the selling of their house? It was, in truth, not so very different a consequence of Helen's death.

The answer was that there was no answer. All that he knew was, at that instant, he hurt, he burned, he was seared with an anger that could know no positive outlet.

Because nothing would ever change things. This was the way life was now—and always would be.

Kimble fled. Into the balmy evening, clad in unkempt slept-in running sweats and bearing only his keys and wallet, he emerged from the building, sought out his car, slipped inside, and drove off. He had no destination in mind, other than _away_.

He drove until dusk became night. In his travels, he let the car roll past the townhouse on the Near North Side, seeing it, he felt quite sure, for the last time; farther away, a short while later, he cruised past the fenced perimeter of the cemetery where Helen was interred, guiding the vehicle round it twice before driving on.

Hours passed before Kimble parked outside an apartment building. He had visited it only once before, weeks ago. Sitting hunched in the car, he spent a few minutes reviewing his options before levering himself out. Allowing no time for thought, he strode up to the directory, ran a finger down the list until he found the name he wanted, then depressed the ball of his thumb heavily on the buzzer in three long bursts.

A pause followed—a fairly long pause that said much had Kimble been paying attention. Instead, he pressed the buzzer again, another three, demanding—and rude—rings.

 _"What?"_ The barked response was querulous with broken sleep and a raw edge of pain.

Knowing he dare not hesitate or Gerard would disconnect the intercom, Kimble said quickly, "Sam, it's me."

Silence. Then: _"Richard?"_

The blood stilled in Kimble's veins. He had not thought, not really. Gerard was tired, undoubtedly in considerable discomfort. For God's sake, he had been discharged from hospital only yesterday. "I'm sorry," Kimble whispered. "Never mind, Sam."

 _"Richard!"_ Gerard's voice cracked like thunder. "God, I've got a headache," he groaned. "Richard, just push, will you? And make it quick?"

Embarrassed, chagrined, shamed beyond words, Kimble nonetheless did as he was told. The door gave before his weight, and he entered the building, feeling exposed in the glare of security lights, of which there were several. The hall led to the elevator; to his right beckoned the stairway. Taking the stair would easily postpone his arrival at Gerard's door—but it would also prolong Gerard's suffering.

Kimble took the elevator.

Face set, shoulders only slightly rounded, he stepped out of the cab and into the corridor. Gerard's apartment opened off this landing. Kimble rapped his knuckles lightly on the solid-core door. There was a sense of motion from within, then Gerard appeared, Glock at his side.

"It is you," he said cryptically. Waving the gun toward the corridor, Gerard indicated that he should follow. "Lock it behind you, okay? I've got to sit down." With that, he staggered down the hall.

Unhappily taking in Gerard's ankle-length robe—one sleeve hanging empty—his disheveled hair and pasty complexion, Kimble promised himself he would somehow make this up to him.

"Richard." Gerard stopped at the end of the corridor which, opposite from where Kimble stood, appeared to open to the left into a living room and to the right into another corridor. "What's wrong?"

Kimble's face crumpled. "I'm sorry, Sam. I shouldn't have bothered you. Try to forget I was here, okay? I really am—"

 _"Richard."_ Gerard sucked in a steadying breath. Then, rather shockingly, he began to laugh, a deep, throaty sound that seemed to originate in his toes. "I'm going back to bed." Leaning his head against the door jamb, he explained, "Took a couple of painkillers; the shoulder's been giving me hell. But I've forgotten my manners." He gestured toward another room off the corridor, taking care never to point the Glock in Kimble's direction. "Kitchen's over there. If you want something, help yourself. Stay the night if you like." He turned away. "Good night."

Not knowing quite how to respond—but reflexively loath to return home—Kimble watched the other man disappear down the adjoining corridor. In the kitchen he found the refrigerator and therein uncovered a six-pack of Dos Equis—one of his favorites. Taking heart at sight of this unlikely treasure, he helped himself to a bottle, worked off the cap, and took it, feeling guilty, into the living room.

Only one lamp was lit. Kimble turned it off and went to stand by the window. Once his eyes had adjusted, he pulled the drapes open and gazed outward. This part of the neighborhood was quiet and heavily treed. Lights were less obtrusive, at least from this height.

The tension gradually drained out of him as the beer, dark and potent, settled in his insides and drenched him with warmth. He poured the last drops down his throat. Turning, he took in the simple arrangement of sofa, overstuffed chair, and coffee table with built-in lamp. Nothing elaborate; everything as uncluttered as he might have expected.

Kimble padded on noiseless feet across the room to the chair, placing the empty bottle on the table. He lowered himself onto the cushion. As he had just now guessed, this chair was positioned to give its occupant an exemplary view of the night sky and tree-shaded lights. A strange exhilaration filled him at the realization that on occasion Gerard must sit here, just like this, stars and moon shining on him, while he derived solace and peace from this same view.

It was a thought that brought the deputy marshal somehow closer, made them in some way kindred. Merely sitting here in Sam Gerard's apartment, secure in the knowledge that Gerard himself was scant steps away, afforded him a sense of— What?

Uneasily, Kimble glanced back toward the hall. He ought to go home. The beer had loosened him up, had put things back in perspective. It was wrong to impose on Gerard's surprisingly good nature like this. He needed his rest. He needed—

Teeth sunk hard into his bottom lip, Kimble rose to his feet. He collected the bottle and carried it into the kitchen. After a cursory search, he ferreted out the trash bin; taking care not to cause unnecessary noise, he lowered the empty container until it met resistance, and there the bottle was laid to rest.

With heart pressing against his ribs, he re-entered the corridor. _That_ door gave entry to the room to which Gerard had retired. Faintly, the sound of the other man's breathing reached his ears. Kimble followed that half-imagined, half-heard susurration, his own breathing growing more audible as his heart rate ridiculously increased.

His eyes were fully adapted to the dark now. Kimble stopped outside the doorway to Gerard's room and pressed a palm against the varnished wood. He held his breath as it swung slowly inward. Inside, the room was large and plainly furnished. Two windows, dressed with open mini-blinds, were cut into the opposite wall; the headboard of Gerard's king-size bed fit between the window moldings. A long, solid-looking dresser, a hard-backed chair—both possibly maple—a free-standing, wood-framed, cheval-glass mirror, and a metal steamer trunk set flush against the darkly burnished foot board connoted functionality as well as genteel charm.

Gerard was a long, dark ridge on the near side of the mattress; bedclothes came up to his ears, his face was partially obscured. He slept soundly—or so Kimble assumed—as he moved not at all save for the almost invisible rise and fall of his chest.

"How is Newman?"

The question, despite being softly spoken, startled a tiny gasp from Kimble. "Off oxygen this evening," he reported. "He's healing."

Gerard made an unintelligible murmur of approval. He cleared his throat. "Rough day?"

It was a remarkably patient way of asking why he was here—more, why he remained. For a fleeting, and stupefying instant Kimble actually could not remember why. "A little," he admitted at last.

All at once the shadowed mound rose up under the covers. Using his good arm as a brace, Gerard shoved inward toward the opposite side of the bed, leaving half of the bed free. When he subsided once more, the arm lay outside, on top of the billowy comforter. Saying nothing, Gerard patted the fabric, once, twice, thrice.

The invitation was clear.

For an instant Kimble's brain locked up. He took hold of the door frame and clung to it. Then, seemingly without will, he halted into the room, the first step followed by a second, the second by a third, each footfall carrying him farther away from the doorway and nearer the bed, until he came to loom over the abandoned side of the mattress.

"Sam?"

The hand beat its lazy tattoo once more.

Mouth dry, Kimble cautiously eased himself onto the very edge of the mattress. This was _crazy._

"Just lie down, Richard," Gerard murmured, his voice heavy with interrupted sleep. "It'll be okay. I promise."

Closing his eyes, Kimble heeled off his shoes and lay back. His head seemed to melt into the pillow; the comforter cushioned him with loving hospitality. Even the heat from Gerard's body seemingly lingered just to still his shivering.

A hand brushed up against Kimble's arm. Calloused fingers patted his wrist, then fell limp, lying half on and half off his forearm before they slid down onto the mattress. Gerard's low, constant breathing embodied a talisman of sorts on this very strange night. What he had needed Kimble had found. Here. Why he should need this, Kimble could not explain. Nor did it matter. Come the dawn, vulnerable in the garishness of day, he might feel embarrassment, regret, self-contempt. But for now, lying here, with the reality of Samuel Gerard's protection less than inches away, Kimble was safe. And he was welcome. The blissful calm of the morning returned; it lulled him and cradled him. Sleep ventured nearer, as insistent as the scent of flowers following a fall of rain, and as irresistibly seductive.

Kimble unclasped his fingers, allowing his arms to relax at his sides. He found Gerard's hand still there, cool beneath his touch. Careful not to disturb him, he encircled that large, sinewy wrist. Gerard's pulse rose up against his fingertips. Like a metronome its rhythm invaded Kimble's brain.

Dream and reality began to overlap until one was indistinguishable from the other. On some level of his mind, he recalled that this same dream scenario—the two of them, lying together like this—had been cause for anxiety. But only ever after he had awakened, after he had remembered. Such pangs never invaded the dream landscape—for while there, he found comfort, tenderness, warmth, and pleasure. There was no sadness, no pain, no death, no feelings of guilt, doubt, or fear.

Only Gerard. Tall, somber, enigmatic. Waiting for him. Reaching for him. Whispering—something. His lips gliding past Kimble's ear, warm breath stirring up shivers from the bottom of Kimble's spine, a flurry of them, like dandelion feathers caught on a puff of air. Words, low and provocative. Telling him— Asking him—

* * * * *

"What about the IV?"

"Not for another day or two."

"Why not? I feel fine!"

Kimble explained patiently, "Normally we leave gunshot wounds open for at least five days, until we know the damaged tissues aren't harboring infection. We can't do that in the sites you were hit. So you're being saturated with antibiotics. Best way to do that is by IV. It stays. Stop griping."

Newman attempted an intimidating scowl. "I'm losing muscle tone. If I don't—"

The door swung open behind them. "Hi, Noah. Doc." Gerard strode into the room. He nodded at Kimble. "How're you doing, young man?"

Petulantly, Newman answered, "My ear doesn't hurt at all."

For a moment, Gerard's face went blank. Then something seemed to register. "Don't push it, kid." He cuffed him gently; there was the faintest hint of humor in his eyes. He turned to Kimble. "How's he doing?"

"Frisky as a peach orchard boar," Kimble replied sourly.

Regarding Newman with new respect, Gerard asked, "That good? So when do I get him back?"

"About the time you get yourself back." It helped to have a well-established role to revert to; that of doctor, after all, was one Kimble had perfected over the years. In this particular instance, it saved him from premature embarrassment. He knew the moment of reckoning would come; certainly, Gerard was owed an explanation for his behavior last night. But there was no law that said he could not put off that moment as long as possible. "If you can promise to keep him on light duty—and I mean light—maybe the end of next week."

Gerard nodded his approval. To Noah he said, "No fun getting popped, is it?"

"I'll duck quicker next time."

"Get a Glock. The Sig's trigger-pull is too heavy; slows you down."

"You're the only one who can afford a Glock, Sam," Newman argued. "The USMS issued my Sig."

"Left over from Special Ops. So save your pennies. And hurry up and get out of here; Biggs misses you."

Newman curled his lip. "What an incentive."

Pivoting a quarter turn to face Kimble, Gerard said, "Doctor, can I buy you a coffee?" Fussily, he shifted his shoulders; the sling clearly annoyed him.

Caught unprepared, Kimble gave his ear a pull, mumbling, "I—Uh—"

"Take a break, Richard. Fifteen minutes. I have to see my doctor at nine-thirty."

Kimble reluctantly agreed. "Yeah, okay." He went to the door and held it open. "Though I can't recommend the coffee; it stinks."

"That's the kind he likes," interposed Newman.

"And it can't be any worse than the sludge Newman makes," Gerard countered.

"Unfortunately true," Newman conceded. His hang-dog stare weighed heavily on them as they exited into the corridor.

"Is he doing as well as you said?" Gerard asked.

Kimble flagged him into the elevator. "Better. It helps that you're doing okay. He knows he's responsible for your being alive—at least in part."

"At least in whole." Gerard stood back and waited for Kimble to select their floor. "Noah's young yet. He still cares too much."

There was nothing Kimble could say in response to that. He knew Gerard's philosophy. _I don't care!_ And although that was not entirely true—Kimble himself being a prime example of the deputy marshal's caring a great deal—it stung to hear the words spoken in such an off-hand manner.

The elevator disgorged them onto the third floor, where the cafeteria was located. They squeezed through an unexpectedly large crowd of people, most of whom were more intent on blocking the exit than in facilitating their own boarding. With unthinking protectiveness, Kimble ran interference for the deputy marshal, keeping slightly ahead and left of him in order to repel the most inconsiderate of the crush.

"End of the early morning shift," Kimble remembered out loud. He continued a half-step in front of Gerard, leading the way to the end of a short line.

"Those people leave at nine in the morning?"

"They've been sitting around drinking coffee since eight, most of them."

"Nothing better to do?"

"Winding down. Catching up on gossip."

Kimble poured two coffees, collected sugar, creamer packets, plastic stirrers, and napkins, and loaded them onto the tray, which tracked smoothly on metal gliders down to the cashier. He had money in hand before Gerard could wrestle his wallet free of his trousers pocket.

"Wait a minute," the deputy marshal objected as Kimble scooped up the tray and gestured toward a table at the opposite end of the cafeteria.

Tersely, Kimble said, "I owe you." He began to zig-zag across the cluttered floor.

"Owe me?"

Pretending not to have heard, Kimble concentrated on navigating the islands of tables and chairs until he found a place isolated enough to suit him.

"What do you owe me for?" Gerard insisted, the whiteness of his face a better measure of his present discomfort than any freely offered words would have been.

"Did you take your pills this morning?"

Gerard frowned stonily. "I've given them up." His brows were arched, lips pinched, defying Kimble's opinion.

"I owe you for last night," Kimble explained. "And I'm sorry I bothered you." He set the tray on the table, then pulled out one chair for Gerard and one for himself.

Sitting down heavily, Gerard turned his attention to the purposeful preparation of his coffee. "Did you sleep?"

"Yeah." Kimble stared moodily down into his cup.

"You left early."

"I locked everything up—"

"Yes, you did, Richard. I took particular note of that. But did you get any rest last night?"

Kimble said defensively, "Yes, Sam, I did. And I left early so I could get home to clean up and change." His internal clock had awakened him at four in the morning; feeling extraordinarily rested and untroubled, he had needed only a moment to orient himself. Then disbelief and chagrin had kicked in. While Gerard slept on, Kimble had slipped off the bed, picked up his shoes, and crept out of the room. Then he had escaped with his conscience in tatters. "I don't know why I did that to you, Sam. I mean, there are other people I could have inflicted myself on."

"No doubt."

"But I do promise I won't do it again."

Gerard stared at him.

"I'm just saying that I'm grateful that you didn't boot me out—though you should've."

His reply was an eloquent snort. "Nothing to apologize for." Gerard thumbed the stirrer to one side and lifted the styrofoam cup to his lips. "I _would_ like to know why."

Kimble's stomach rolled. It had been too much to hope that Gerard might have let him off the hook altogether.

The deputy sipped his coffee, glancing idly round the room. He fingered the rim of the cup, and conspicuously said nothing.

"Helen's insurance payment came through yesterday." A fleeting shadow crossed Gerard's face; as a show of sympathy, it was all Kimble would have asked for. "I suppose I ought to have expected it. It just—"

Gerard anticipated him. "A lousy reminder."

"One way of putting it." Almost under his breath, he went on, "Hit me harder than I expected, I guess. And what with the dreams I've been having, it was the last—" Kimble stopped abruptly, aware all at once that by interrupting himself, he had shone a blinding light upon the subject.

"Dreams?"

"Uh—Yeah."

"As in nightmares? About your wife?"

Kimble filled his mouth with coffee. He blinked; it was hotter than expected. "Sometimes," he hedged, then tried to make light of the evasion. "You name it, I've dreamt it."

"About all those months in prison, the bus wreck, the train crash, that lunatic jump off the dam?" Gerard persisted. "Your friend Dr. Nichols? That sort of thing?"

"For starters."

"But you're a doctor, Richard; you've seen horrible things before."

"It's a little different when it's personal, Sam. And, anyway, most of the 'horrible things' I've seen have been in a controlled environment. A trauma center, an operating room. Not people being blown apart by a shotgun inside an out-of-control bus; not a train falling in flames on top of my head." His voice dropped a note, became husky and raw; in another minute, he would have been shouting. "Not Helen being brutalized, with everyone thinking _I_ did it."

"Yeah, of course that's different," Gerard conceded. "But be honest. You're a take-charge kind of guy—in any situation. Whether you're trying to save a patient, or to find the creeps responsible for killing your wife." He sat back, fretfully rubbing at his shoulder. "And isn't that a big part of it? Control, I mean? As a doctor, you do things in a very specific way, in a specific place. Change the ground rules and _everything_ changes, goes to hell. And there's no better way to put someone seriously off balance than to change their ground rules." He gave Kimble's hand a nudge. "Can lead to nightmares."

Gerard could be frighteningly—and unwantedly—astute. "But then you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Sudden resentment spilled out; Kimble had never liked being examined too closely. "Because you are the control—you and that gun of yours—with the full backing of the law."

"Subject to change without notice," Gerard pointed out with an ironic smile. In the course of their conversation, his color had noticeably improved; evidently animated debate agreed with him. "Like the first time I met you—in that freezing-cold, smelly, wet tunnel."

That meeting had certainly cropped up in more than one of Kimble's dreams lately, with subsequent events—as engineered by his stunningly inventive subconscious—taking a markedly unusual detour from past reality. Abruptly and unreasonably afraid that Gerard might somehow intercept his thoughts, Kimble remarked, "At the time, I thought you were laughing at me. You didn't seem too worried."

"I was worried," Gerard assured him gravely. "You had _my_ gun pointed at _me_."

"But did you dream because of it?"

The corners of Gerard's mouth twitched. "All during the week that I was chasing you, Richard, I hardly got any sleep at all." He reflected for a moment. "It was later, weeks later, when I thought I'd forgotten about it—or at least had put it out of my mind—that's when I dreamed." Gerard shrugged. "But even then it was sort of okay."

"My holding your gun on you was 'sort of okay?'"

After a brief and transparent struggle, Gerard admitted the truth. "Well, it was only you."

"Only—"

"You. Richard Kimble, well-known, well-liked, respected vascular surgeon; not some cold-blooded killer with a criminal record as long as my leg and a habit of shooting up the law. Even in my sleep I managed to remember that."

That unquestioning certainty of Kimble's innate goodness somehow contradictorily nettled. "Nothing to be concerned about, you mean?"

"If it makes you feel any better," Gerard said silkily, "you did give me a few bad moments. Okay?"

Gerard's unwilling concession finally broke Kimble's mood. He was not, however, prepared to capitulate entirely. "How reassuring," he intoned sarcastically.

"You can be a real pain in the cheeks, Richard." Using the edge of the table for support, Gerard took to his feet. "And, as it's almost time for my appointment, I'm leaving." He finished his coffee in a single gulp.

"Sam."

Gerard paused, staring down his nose at him.

"If you're not doing anything Saturday, come over to my place. I'll make dinner. Say, between seven and eight? I'll even bake some cornbread."

The deputy's features might have been chiseled from rock. Kimble, however, now knew the other man well enough to detect amusement in the deepset eyes. "With honey?" Gerard prompted.

Nodding indulgently, Kimble said, "Of course. So it doesn't stick in your throat."

"Don't see how I can refuse, then. I'll call on Friday to confirm."

Kimble made as if to rise.

"No." An upraised hand motioned him back. "Finish your coffee." With the styrofoam cup held fast between the thumb and forefinger of his disabled hand, Gerard swept up his small pile of litter with the other. "Thanks for buying. But you were right."

"About?"

"The coffee, Richard. It's disgusting." And then he was off, a dark, lean figure moving with grace and cautious speed toward the door. Kimble watched him until he had rounded the corner into the corridor. The room, noisy with people, seemed empty without him.

* * * * *

Following the drama of Sunday night, the remainder of Kimble's week was unexceptional in comparison. He ran the high school track alone, finding the mornings warmer and more sultry with each passing day. Late spring erupted all around him, proclaiming its lusty enterprise in masses of brilliant, musky-sweet blooms and richly green, newly leafed trees. Neighborhood lawns were thick and verdant; the heavy aroma of daily cuttings pungently filled his lungs.

Newman went home on Thursday, aided by Deputies Biggs, Henry, and Cosmo Renfro, another of Charles Nichols' victims. The small but rugged deputy still wore a neck-brace, and faced weeks more of therapy before he could return to the work he had known. Rather than take on light duty, as was Newman's intention, Renfro had signed up for extended education classes offered at the Marshals Service facility at Glynco on the East Coast. The long-weekend visit to Chicago had been arranged to coincide with Newman's homecoming. Gerard's people, for all their rough banter and seeming hardness, were a tightly knit crew.

Gutherie rang on Monday night to confirm that the deal on Kimble's townhouse had gone through, all according to plan. He had seen to it that the keys were handed over to the new owners, while coming away with a sizable check in Kimble's name—which had already been deposited in the appropriate investment account. Rushed for time, he had crisply asked after Kimble's welfare, replied in exchange that his own had been sorely compromised with his currently heavy, though lucrative, workload, then had rung off to dive back into the thick of things.

In the middle of the week, Kimble was called into an interview with the hospital administrators to discuss his hours. It was time, they announced, for him to slow down, if only to keep him from dropping dead from overwork. He readily, and a bit to their surprise, agreed. They settled upon a new schedule between them that would reduce his workload by ten hours a week, freeing up most of Kimble's weekends and a few of his evenings for personal pursuits while keeping him on tap through the worst of trauma season, which would begin Memorial Day weekend.

Shortly thereafter—which timing led Kimble to suspect conspiracy however benign—several of his former patients approached him concerning private treatment. It was not something he had invested a great deal of thought in. The hospital environment had provided a place to escape to—as well as a place to escape from. Not unlike, he realized one afternoon while mulling the effort involved in resuming private practice, prison.

That, as much as anything, convinced him that the moment to move forward had presented itself. His every waking hour still spoken for, Kimble left it to Gutherie to begin inquiries regarding the legal as well as practical aspects of establishing a new private practice. He was in no hurry to tinker with his present routine, but comprehended that change was an inevitable and necessary part of healing.

And for the first time in more months than he could remember, Kimble succeeded in sleeping through the night for five nights in a row.

* * * * *

Saturday afternoon, Kimble handed over his one and only "at-risk" patient to Akbari and headed home slowed only by two hit-and-run errands, one of which involved the local meat market. Gerard had called the previous day, leaving a laconic message on Kimble's answering machine. Unless Kimble had decided to cancel—in which case he was to phone back—he, Gerard, would show up on Kimble's doorstep nearer seven than eight Saturday night.

Amid the succulent scents of falling-apart tender beef simmering in a tomato sauce crowded with potatoes, carrots, onions, peas, and green beans, Kimble lazily surveyed his preparations for the evening. His only thought in inviting Gerard over tonight had been to distract the deputy marshal from his injuries and temporarily enforced inactivity. A man of fierce intelligence, Gerard also required a rigorous physical outlet to keep himself on an even keel. Being of similar disposition, Kimble understood well what Gerard was going through.

His plans for the night were simple. Dinner, alcohol if Gerard wanted it, coffee and dessert—and whatever Gerard chose to watch on video. Kimble's selections, made during his second stop on the way home from the hospital and reserved some days in advance, were both eclectic and comprehensive. He was looking forward to Gerard's reaction.

The door buzzer went off at ten minutes past seven. Kimble, standing in the kitchen giving the pot a stir, reached out an arm and depressed the button.

"Yeah?"

"It's me, Richard."

"Push."

Kimble greeted the deputy marshal at the door, beckoning him inside with a broad sweep of the arm and an abbreviated bow. Gerard, diligently encased in the ever-present sling, accorded the histrionic gesture a dour look. As he stepped into the entry, he displayed the bottle of cabernet gripped in his right hand.

"Nice stuff!" Kimble exclaimed.

"Should go well with dinner." Gerard exaggeratedly sniffed the air, then inhaled deeply, eyes slitted with pleasure. "Who told you?"

"Who else?"

"Newman," Gerard said.

"Newman," Kimble agreed. "The evening before he was released, I told him I was cooking dinner for you tonight. He said beef stew is your favorite."

"And you believed him?"

"I—" Kimble choked; instinct came to his defense. "Lucky for you I did," he said sharply. "I saw your face when you caught a whiff of it. It's damn good, too."

"If the smell is anything to go by." Gerard unclipped the strap holding his button-down sweater in place and peeled it off his shoulders.

"Here." Liberating the blue cotton knit from Gerard's fingers, Kimble directed him toward the living room. "Hope you weren't expecting anything formal tonight. We're eating in there. Make yourself comfortable while I hang this up and pour the wine."

"Just tell me it won't be long before the chow's ready." The plea in Gerard's voice seemed to come from the heart. "Even if I'm early."

On his way to the coat-rack in the corridor, Kimble heard a soft hiss from the living room. He poked his head back around the doorway just as Gerard finished lowering himself, very circumspectly, onto the sofa.

Sensing Kimble's attention, Gerard raised his head. "I missed lunch," he announced evenly, answering the question in Kimble's eyes.

"I've got munchies. You still in pain?"

"Headache. Doctor said to expect it." He sniffed his opinion of the doctor's advice. "Big news."

"And the shoulder?"

"Therapy's helping, _doctor_."

Kimble withdrew. After meticulously storing the sweater—it bore a surprisingly expensive label—he repaired to the kitchen where he opened the bottle. Holding the cork up to his nose, he inhaled. "Really nice stuff," he muttered. Five minutes later, he returned to the living room with two filled glasses balanced on a tray which was almost hidden by several small plates boasting cheese, pate, and crab-salad _hors d'oeuvres_. Gerard was making gravelly sounds which Kimble identified as laughter as he stepped through the doorway.

"Where in the hell did you find all of these?"

"Video store down the street." Kimble placed the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. "Your choice."

"We could be here all night," Gerard chided, as he picked up another tape and shook his head with disbelief.

"If you're up to it."

"Biggs." Gerard studied the spine. "Biggs definitely had a hand in this one." He guffawed at sight of the last cassette in the pile. "Though this one is pure Renfro."

"When everyone showed up to help Newman check out of the hospital, I told them what I wanted to do. They were _full_ of helpful suggestions. Renfro wouldn't explain the one in your hand; said I had to ask you."

The overall theme was "Texas"—Hollywood-style. Among the films Kimble had rented were "The Alamo," "San Antonio," "North Dallas Forty," "Giant," and, stretching things a bit, "Cahill—United States Marshal." Unable to resist, Kimble had also rented "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" and "Debbie Does Dallas," as well as Deputy Marshal Cosmo Renfro's suggestion.

Half-grimacing, half-grinning, Gerard revealed, "Renfro talked me into seeing this when we were grounded in DC in a snowstorm a year or so ago." He held the transparent case at arm's length, reading the label through the plastic. "Said it was about a couple of sweet kids running loose in Texas and neighboring states. Of course, that wasn't the real reason."

Seldom a patron of the local cinema, Kimble nevertheless often read the reviews of current releases—and he knew that by no quirk of the imagination could the "kids" in "Wild at Heart" be described as "sweet."

"So what was it?"

"Part of the action goes on in a place called Big Tuna. My hometown. Coming out of the theatre, Renfro said he understood me better after seeing the film."

"So it really should be called 'Wild at Heart—The True Story of Sam Gerard?'"

"According to Renfro, yeah." Gerard set the tape on top of the stack and took up his wine glass. "You are out of your mind, doctor."

Kimble congratulated himself on having achieved his objective. Gerard was relaxed and amused. "Renfro said he's made a lot of progress. When's he coming back to work?"

"With us, maybe never."

"No?"

"Kind of a dead end for him here anyway—especially so long as I'm in charge of the local office."

"Thought he was your right-hand man. Where will he go? More importantly, what will you do without him?"

"The Marshals Service is chronically short-staffed. He'll be able to name his own ticket—within reason."

"In the position he wants? In charge of his own crew?"

"Yeah. Renfro's short, but his bite's a whole lot worse than his bark. He's got a lot of years of experience under his belt. He's capable."

Kimble slipped a cheese-and-olive cracker off the tray. "You'll miss him."

"Yes."

"Who'll take his place?"

"Poole, mostly. Anyway, she can be every bit as tough as Renfro—tougher in fact." Gerard was not being facetious; his voice as much as his words communicated unfeigned respect and admiration for Deputy Marshal Poole.

For some reason the image of a cold-eyed, red-headed, pony-tailed emergency room attending came to Kimble's mind. Dr. Eastman, he thought with crystalline certainty. It was she who had snatched the ID off his janitor's uniform in a corridor near the emergency entrance to Cook County Hospital, exposing him as an impostor after he had taken it upon himself to hurry a badly injured child to the operating room.

"Scary, aren't they?" Kimble mused. "Women like that."

"Not at all." There was a touch of consternation in Gerard's expression. "They're absolutely essential in my line of work."

Realizing that he had been misread, Kimble said, "You remember Dr. Eastman at Cook County? Worked in the emergency room?"

Taking up a cracker, Gerard said, "Sure. We talked about her before. Little bitty redhead. Less give than a new boot."

"Wouldn't like to be on her bad side, would you?"

"Good Lord, no."

"That's what I was talking about. Women like her."

"Your Helen," Gerard said around a mouthful. "Was she ever like that?"

Denial leapt to his tongue; but Kimble stopped himself. "Never really thought about it before," he said. "And _I_ never got on her bad side. Well, if I could help it. But she certainly could be like that, now that you ask."

"It's okay, Richard. Women _like that_ can take care of themselves. Good people to have around."

"So why aren't you married to one?"

Gerard raised an amused eyebrow. "Who'd have me, Richard?"

"You have a point. And while you're at it, have another cracker; I'm going to check the chow."

Determined to play the perfect host, Kimble continued to ply his guest with food, wine, silly anecdotes, more food, more wine, and more silly anecdotes as the evening progressed. They watched "San Antonio" and part of "Texas Chainsaw Massacre," the latter simply because neither had seen it—but neither did they feel the need to complete the experience, brutally diverting though it was.

After his second helping of cornbread, Gerard professed himself determined to partake of a third. By then feeling the pressure of too many glasses of cabernet and cups of coffee, Kimble directed the deputy to help himself while he retired to the bathroom.

Upon his return, Kimble found the television chattering to an empty room. Curious, he wandered into the kitchen in search of Gerard.

The deputy stood, bent forward, in front of the refrigerator, studying Kimble's "reparations" list. "Is this what I think it is?"

Inwardly, Kimble tensed. "Probably."

"The dates refer to when you paid these amounts?"

"Yes."

"And the ones without dates?"

"Haven't run down a contact yet."

"You can take the Glock off the list. You'd have to do more than dunk it in cold water to ruin one of those. And _this_ one—" Gerard stabbed a finger at the middle of the page "—is twenty thousand one hundred—uh—seventy-two dollars and—" He closed one eye "—fifty-seven cents."

_"Twenty thou—!"_

"Two four-by-eight bulletproof glass panels and replacement operators with lock-down capability. Very expensive toys, Richard."

Kimble leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter that separated kitchen from dining room.

"Invoice came across my desk a few weeks back," Gerard informed him. "The number was discussed. Big Jim even threatened to garnish my wages to repay the county."

"Big Jim. Is he the one I need to contact?"

The amusement froze on Gerard's face. "It's been paid for, Richard."

"Is he the one?" Kimble insisted.

"No. The Marshals Service didn't pay for it. The taxpayers did. Make a contribution to the IRS." Casting a final, sweeping glance over the list, Gerard turned away from the refrigerator, plate heaped with cornbread in hand, and stalked out of the kitchen.

"You still getting heat from him?" Kimble trailed behind him.

"Sometimes. Big Jim's very cost-conscious." Gerard sank carefully into the sofa, not forgetting in his vexation the need for temperance. "Most of the time, anyway."

Sitting next to him, Kimble brazenly pinched off a small wedge of cornbread. He popped it into his mouth. "I want to pay for it, Sam. Who do I make the check out to?"

Gerard closed his eyes and rubbed two fingers across his heavy brow. His nostrils flattened as he drew in a long, steadying breath. When he spoke, however, his voice held no trace of disapproval. "I'll get a name and address for you."

"Thanks." Hand poised to pilfer again, Kimble asked with disarming directness, "Why are you angry?"

Gerard anticipated the theft, handing over a large piece of moist, golden meal before it could be snatched away. "I'm not," he replied. "Who's Quint?"

"Quint—" The seemingly ingenuous question rudely disrupted Kimble's mellow frame of mind. "Quint. You saw the food dish on the counter with his name on it, right? Quint was our cat."

"What happened to him—her?"

"Him." Kimble shrugged. "Don't know. Walter—Gutherie, my lawyer—said he was taken to the pound while I was in jail.

"Probably long gone, then."

"Probably."

"Too bad, Richard."

"It's okay." Kimble rested back against the sofa. "All part of the—" He spoke carefully. "—deal."

Gerard just looked at him. At random, he selected another tape. "Let's try this one."

They rounded out the evening with "Cahill—United States Marshal," which gradually resurrected their lighthearted mood and gave rise to a mixture of whimsical and crude commentary regarding John Wayne's galvanic performance. As the credits were running, Gerard surrendered to a huge yawn, triggering a sympathetic response from Kimble.

"Time I went home, Richard."

"There's a spare bed," Kimble said impulsively, reaching forward to collect dirty glasses and plates. "If you want to stay over."

"Thank you—but I'd better go. You have work tomorrow."

Kimble did not try to talk him out of it. He abandoned the dishes to walk Gerard to the door, wordlessly helped him into his sweater, then accepted his thanks for an enjoyable evening.

"Sleep well, Richard," Gerard bade him good night.

"You, too, deputy." Kimble was rewarded with a wry smile.

"I'll try."

That night Kimble was wakened just before dawn by vivid, passionate dreams. Through the passing weeks, his sleeping self had staged ever more intense, erotic, and explicit activities featuring his subconscious alter ego. In their earlier, more innocent incarnations, such nighttime adventures had perplexed and mystified him, had even at first disturbed him. Since last Sunday night, that was no longer the case. Now he was neither perplexed, mystified, nor disturbed—only, perhaps, a little bemused. It would appear that he did not know himself nearly as well as he had thought.

After snagging a couple of tissues out of the bedside box and tucking them where they were most needed, he spent a few minutes recalling the images that had literally roused him from his slumber. Alone, he could safely entertain and relive them. And he found a certain trenchant amusement in discovering that he was as frustrated as he was consoled by the certain knowledge that his nighttime yearnings would never be experienced in the light of day. Still, he wondered what _Gerard_ would think, were he ever told of _his_ involvement in Kimble's occasional nocturnal enthusiasms.

* * * * *

Monday morning, Memorial Day, Kimble arrived on foot at the high school to find Gerard's car, sans owner, parked in the lot. The deputy marshal himself, dressed in black sweats with neon blue stripes running down each arm and leg, sat at one of the benches where they routinely performed cool-down stretches.

"What are you doing here?" Kimble asked, professionally pleased to see that Gerard still wore his sling; personally pleased simply to see Gerard.

"Hello to you too." Gerard swung his legs out from under the table and rose. "Thought I'd talk you into a brisk walk—if you'll put up with slow company, that is."

"If that's what the company wants, you bet."

"Well, then, the company wants breakfast afterward, too."

"Breakfast, too! Deal." A new spring in his step, Kimble headed for the track.

For the first quarter mile, only the complaint of gravel stirring underfoot broke the silence. Then Gerard asked, "How were things at the hospital yesterday?"

"Lots of piddly stuff because of the holiday. Nothing major, thankfully. Spent most of my time watching videos—new procedures, experimental stuff, that kind of thing."

They increased their pace, heads coming up simultaneously as geese, flying low, appeared overhead. "What about you?" Kimble asked.

"Went to the range for a couple of hours. Looked at the paper. Drank coffee. Read."

"What?" At Gerard's unforthcoming stare, Kimble prodded, "What were you reading?"

"This and that."

Kimble's ears pricked up. "'This and that.' Don Pendleton? John Grisham? Stephen King? DH Lawrence? Chaucer?"

"From the absurd to the sublime. No, no, no, no, and no."

"Then?"

"Yeats."

Kimble could not help himself; his brows rose. "As in William Butler?"

"Yes."

"Ah." Well aware that he had probably offended his companion, Kimble said, rather too quickly, "Which of his poems is your favorite?"

"'The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.'"

Never having heard Yeats quoted in a pronounced Texas accent, Kimble found it a new—and charming—experience. "That's what Helen used to say about cats," he commented. "Certainly true about ours."

To Kimble's relief, Gerard chuckled. "You know it, then?"

"Yeah. _The Second Coming_. Britten used 'The ceremony of innocence is drowned' in one of his operas, _The Turn of the Screw_."

"You listen to opera?" There was no missing the accusation in Gerard's voice.

"You read Yeats!"

Gerard gave his head a firm shake. "Poetry's one thing. I draw the line at _opera_."

"Well," Kimble said honestly, "It was Helen's thing more than mine."

"So what kind of music do you listen to?" Gerard taunted. "Nirvana? Pearl Jam?"

"Seems I've heard those names from somewh—"

"Seattle grunge bands. According to Newman. Your Akbari likes them too."

"Does she?"

"He borrowed one of her tapes. Left it in my car after running an errand for me recently."

"Loud?"

"Worse than opera."

" _I_ like The Oldies. Sixties, Seventies, mostly—though they don't seem _that_ old to me. Some classical stuff. Even some of the operas. What about you? What do you like?" Kimble threw back at him.

"This and that."

"Huh. Does that mean Yeats wrote music too?"

"Funny, Richard."

After half an hour, Kimble suggested that they adjourn to a nearby cafe for their breakfast. Gerard agreed with alacrity, either because their walk had proven more wearing than he had expected, or because he was hungry. They took Gerard's car, navigating through holiday-empty, early morning streets to a place promised by Kimble to be worthy of their patronage.

Shown to a table inside, they were immediately served hot, fresh coffee and iced water, then left alone to study the menu.

Picking up his mug, Gerard let the vapors rise into his face. "Smells good," he muttered. He took a tentative sip. "Tastes good, too."

"And the food's good," Kimble said abstractedly; should he eat a full-blown meal—eggs, home fries, bacon, and biscuits with sausage gravy—or pay some heed to his cholesterol levels and choose something a trifle more circumspect?

Their waitress returned less than a minute later, pad in hand, pencil poised for action. Gerard ordered Kimble's first choice. Offering a silent apology to his arteries, Kimble seconded it.

As she hurried away, Gerard gave him a level look. Expecting chastisement for his selection—if only because he was already suffering the first twinges of guilt—Kimble was unprepared for the question that followed. "You still have that thirty-eight?"

"My gun?"

Coffee cup at his lips, Gerard signaled agreement with his eyes.

"Yes, I've still got it." Returned to him after his pardon, he even knew exactly which locked box it was stored within.

Gerard's throat worked as he swallowed. "Smith and Wesson, isn't it? How long's it been since you fired it?"

Cream swirled fluidly into Kimble's coffee; he tapped the bottom of the tiny plastic tub to empty it out. He should be drinking it black, but since he had already ordered a "coronary express," it could make little difference. "Over a year and a half ago now."

"I can't work on my boat until this arm has mended," Gerard said. "So I'll probably go to the range again this weekend—and maybe the next one, too. Want to come along?"

"The police range? Am I allowed?"

"Isn't restricted to cops; they have to share it with the Feds. And yes, as my guest, you're allowed."

Certainly, Kimble had not had better offers for the coming weekend; and, of course, Gerard's company was attraction enough for him to say yes. The gun—well, either he maintained the damn thing, and his proficiency with it, or got rid of it altogether. Perhaps a few hours at the range would decide him. "Sure."

"Let me know which day you prefer, so I can book the time."

"My schedule's changed," Kimble announced with remembered relief. "Saturday and Sunday are fine. You choose."

"I'll try for Saturday. Early?"

"Great."

Gerard took a small pad and pen out of his pocket. He scribbled a message to himself on the inside top page. Before putting the pad away, he extricated a small square of paper from between the sheets and handed it across the table. "The address you wanted. For the bulletproof glass."

"Oh, thanks. How'd you get it so soon?"

"Poole rustled it up for me."

"And the amount. How much was that ag—? Oh, you wrote it down. Thanks, Sam."

"Richard," Gerard said with some force. " _Most_ people would think the government was in debt to _you_ after what happened."

Kimble tucked the sheet into a pocket. "Feeling that way wouldn't bring Helen back."

"But would Helen approve of your wasting your money like this?"

Slowly, consideringly, he nodded. "Yes. Because she knew me; and she knew that I never committed a crime until I went on the run. But I stole, I lied, I was a public hazard." His voice dropped a note. "Elliott Tilley—the transit cop on the El—he'd be alive today if not for me."

"And if the CPD had done their job, Tilley'd be alive and you'd never have gone to prison."

"Maybe." Kimble glanced aside. "Anyway," he said hoarsely, "when this one's paid, the Marshals Service will be off the hook." He raised his head, offering Gerard a rueful grin. "That can't be so bad, can it?"

"You're _not_ paying for this because of _me_?"

"No." Kimble cleared his throat, using the precious seconds gained to organize his thoughts. "I paid for the skylight over the elevator shaft at the Hilton, too," he said truthfully. "And I reimbursed the search-and-rescue team for their work at Barkley Dam. Consider it a positive side-effect, okay? And if nothing else, it ought to make your Big Jim happy."

"Like I care whether Big Jim is happy," Gerard growled. "And don't call him my Big Jim."

* * * * *

_Summer_

Kimble's new schedule notwithstanding, Monday and Tuesday of that week flowed one into the other with scarcely a minute to breathe. Arriving home in the early, early hours of Wednesday, Kimble chewed the idea of calling Gerard to cancel their walk. He fell asleep on the sofa before making a decision. Sunlight woke him, aided by a stuffed and throbbing head, scratchy throat, and watery, itchy eyes.

"Shit," Kimble sniveled. He recognized the symptoms. Common cold. He was run-down, he was tired, he needed a day off. To that end, he called the hospital and left a message for administration; then he rang Akbari, who, sounding bright-eyed, wide-awake, and appallingly healthy, promised him that she would interrupt his rest only if his assistance were absolutely necessary.

Following a cold-water wash of hands and face and a gulp of orange juice to kill the taste of catarrh, Kimble clambered into his running togs, dragged on his shoes—head pounding all the while—and took himself out into the daylight.

The weather was fine, rapidly warming, and humid with a threat of thunderstorms in the afternoon. Grumbling to himself, Kimble chose to walk to the school, depending on the undemanding exercise to clear his head and start the dreaded drainage process.

The school was empty of both students (not unexpected at this hour) and Deputy US Marshal Gerard. Feeling decidedly worse for his efforts, Kimble made his way to a bench and stretched out on it, moaning softly as his body completely and rather painfully relaxed. By then he knew that he ought to have offered his regrets and stayed home, where he could be suffering in solitude. Still, the morning air provided a gentling caress, and the sun melted right through clothing, muscle, and bone to warm his very marrow.

Drowsing, he heard the familiar sound of a car pull into the lot; the clunk of a heavy door slamming shut; and footsteps, their measured pace almost as well known as his own, approaching the bench upon which he lay.

"What happened to you?" Gerard leaned over him, his warmth rivaling that of the sun.

Smiling wryly to himself at the amused concern in Gerard's voice, Kimble unhurriedly opened his eyes. "Coming down with a cold," he replied.

"A cold?" The deputy gave a soft grunt of laughter.

"What's funny?" Kimble sat up; he swayed as his equilibrium took its time in catching up. Gerard steadied him with a hand on the shoulder. _Hotter_ , Kimble thought wistfully, _than the sun._

"You." The hand was withdrawn; Kimble missed the weight and heat of it at once. "I've seen you cut up, beat up, half drowned—"

"More than half," Kimble contradicted.

"Bruised and battered—but I don't think I've ever seen you looking this pitiful."

Standing cautiously to maintain the shreds of his dignity, Kimble agreed, "I should have called."

Gerard clasped his good arm around Kimble's shoulders and guided him towards his car. "Yes, you should have. You haven't eaten yet, have you? No, I didn't think so. Let's get some breakfast. Afterward, I'll drive you home."

"Thanks, Sam," Kimble sighed. Gerard let go of him at the passenger door. Unable to stop himself, Kimble shivered.

"You're one stubborn son of a bitch, Dr. Kimble." The key slid into the lock; Gerard yanked open the door and gestured him inside.

"Careful," Kimble mumbled. "Compliments like that go straight to my head."

"Uh huh." Gerard closed him inside the car, then strode round to the driver's side.

At peace with himself, his companion, and life in general, Kimble rested his head against the neck support, shut his eyes, and left everything to Gerard during the short ride to the cafe.

Coffee and juice began to revive him. While Gerard ate toast and scrambled eggs, Kimble picked at his own meal. "How's Newman doing?" he asked, dipping a precisely cut square of French toast into a pool of syrup.

"Keeping busy." Before Kimble could ask for elaboration, Gerard supplemented, "When he's not seeing your resident."

Expertly redirected—but well aware of it—Kimble asked, "Does it bother you? Do you worry about them?"

"They do not seem well matched, Richard."

"Because she's a doctor? Because Noah's a cop?"

"He's _not_ a cop. He's a deputy US marshal."

"So—Maybe they're just friends. Like you and me."

"They are _more_ than friends."

"You're worried."

Gerard leveled his obsidian gaze at Kimble, who did not fail to feel its impact. "No, Richard, I'm not."

"Then what?"

" _I_ think your resident is playing out a fantasy. Noah's beyond her experience—he carries a gun, he's an officer of the law—"

"He listens to Nirvana and Pearl Jelly—"

"Jam," Gerard said brusquely. "He appears much more fascinating to her than he really is."

"Selling him a little short, aren't you, Sam?" Sniffling loudly, Kimble reached for his handkerchief. If he closed his mouth to chew, it cut off his air supply. Etiquette or high oxygen content?

A scowl awaited him after he had finished blowing his nose. " _I_ know what's worthwhile about Newman," Gerard argued softly. "He's solid under fire, clear-headed, and doggedly persistent. He likes what he does, and he thinks he's going to make a difference. Your Dr. Akbari—"

"Likes him. A lot."

"But does she like _him_ —or what she thinks he is?"

"Newman doesn't seem too concerned about it."

Gerard stabbed his fork into an unprotesting mound of eggs. "He's young."

"So is Akbari. I could be wrong, Sam, but I think it'll pass. They _are_ young, and those things rarely last."

"And if it doesn't pass?" Gerard asked.

Swabbing a chunk of toast back and forth through the syrup, Kimble silently bemoaned the fact that he could neither smell nor taste a meal he normally relished. "Then he'll have an exceptionally good doctor to look after him," he replied.

Conspicuously _un_ amused, Gerard said, "Just like me?"

Absurdly, the breath caught in Kimble's throat. He coughed. "There are similarities."

Gerard's mouth formed a tight, mocking smile.

"What's funny?" Kimble asked.

"Nothing, Richard." Gerard reached for his coffee. "Nothing at all."

Later, waving to the deputy marshal as he drove away from the curb, Kimble loitered on the stoop to his apartment, sheltering within himself a small, growing happiness, and a vastly improved sense of well-being. Undeniably, it had been his morning's company rather than the small mouthfuls of flavorless, textureless toast he had managed to choke down that was responsible for his recovery.

The morning's newspaper awaited him in the metal drawer under his mailbox. He carried it upstairs to his apartment, waiting until he had closed and locked the door behind him before slipping the rubber band off and unrolling the day's news. The front page headline leapt up at him. _Gehti Dies of Lethal Injection._

Gehti, the murderer of his own mother and father; Gehti, the patient whose life Kimble had saved so that he would survive until this day; Gehti, the escaped criminal who had brought Samuel Gerard back into Kimble's life.

Gerard himself called mid-morning, purportedly to see how Kimble was faring. Kimble, however, knew the real reason.

"I saw the paper," he announced flatly.

"Gehti."

"Yes."

"His date was moved up from December," Gerard said. "At his own request. He was a sick puppy, Richard. I think even he came to realize that. And it was what he wanted. You know, his idiot lawyer finally gave up trying to keep him alive. Are you all right?"

"Yeah."

Thirty seconds elapsed during which neither man spoke. At last Gerard murmured, "I know it doesn't make any sense to you."

"It would've been kinder to let him die."

"Kindness doesn't enter into it."

Nodding to himself, Kimble sighed, "No."

"Richard—"

Kimble said nothing.

"Richard?"

"I'm here."

"Look— Just— Get some rest, will you?" Like milkweed in a bouquet of roses, exasperation warred with compassion for control of Gerard's voice.

Kimble felt a reluctant smile twitch his lips. "I will, Sam. See you Friday."

* * * * *

Over the next few days, Kimble's recent past seemed to confront him at every turn. Arriving home from the hospital on Thursday, he found three letters awaiting him. Each had been written by a member of his "reparations" list; and each was surprisingly supportive and friendly. While it cheered him to learn that he had indeed done the correct thing by his unintended victims, the constant reminders yet served to salt not quite healed wounds. And, as with Gehti's death, they emphasized the great need he had to get on with his life.

In fact, he had managed to salvage much of the good and to rebuild on the ashes of the bad. In the very few months since that day in March when he had escaped his bonds and set out to find those responsible for murdering Helen, he had acquired a home of his own unhaunted by memories, re-established himself in his work and among his colleagues, formed new and important friendships alongside the old, and fostered a renewed sense of purpose. He harbored no resentments nor anger. And in Samuel Gerard he had found a companion who intrigued, amused, and—to be starkly honest—attracted him. As for the latter, he had no explanation. Perhaps some day he would in his own way—unaided by current psychological theory—delve into its roots. For now he would quietly enjoy the novelty of having fallen head-over-heels in love with another man, secure in the knowledge that his affections would never be returned—at least not in _that_ way.

By Friday afternoon only the dregs of his cold remained, evidenced by a rapidly fading cough—and a surfeit of baked treats left over from his day off. Given the mildness of his symptoms, he wondered if his complaint had even been a virus at all, or simply a wake-up call from his body to slow its headlong rush toward nowhere in particular.

To his disappointment, Gerard stood him up for their morning run, his presence required in court in Boston that afternoon. He had promised, however, to keep their range date Saturday, though their reservation had been changed from early morning to late afternoon in order to accommodate the pressures of his schedule.

With Akbari at his side, Kimble completed his end-of-day rounds, satisfied with his patients' progress and Akbari's ability to look after them. Given time, he suspected that she would easily surpass him—time, and the determination to focus on her goals. For all that Gerard worried about her relationship with Newman, Kimble had yet to detect any detrimental influence on her work. Newman was often in evidence, it was true, but usually in the waiting room, crutches at his side, when Akbari's shift was nearing its end; and once or twice he had spied them on the curved drive off the north side of the building, making their farewells before Akbari began her day. That Newman was willing to play chauffeur to a woman with atrociously unpredictable hours was a sign, to Kimble's mind, of devotion. What it would mean five years from now—or even three weeks from now, when Newman was back at work full time—he could only conjecture.

Home by seven, Kimble ate a light supper, brewed a pot of freshly ground decaffeinated coffee, and settled down with a novel. His cup was scarcely half drunk when the downstairs buzzer sounded. Frowning to himself, Kimble ambled into the kitchen. "Yes?" he said into the intercom, using his most unencouraging professional voice.

"Hey, doc! It's Noah Newman."

"Noah?"

"Yeah. I've got a friend with me who'd like to meet you. D'you mind if we come up for a few minutes? We won't stay long."

Who—? Newman's voice was tinged with excitement and something that made Kimble a little uneasy. "All right, Noah. Push."

"Thanks, doc."

In the intervening minutes, Kimble imagined several ridiculous scenarios. Newman, a new girlfriend in tow, introducing her to the doctor who had saved his leg; Newman, with another deputy marshal, pointing out the brilliant vascular surgeon who had evaded both the USMS and CPD for five days in March; Newman, hauling along—

The bell sounded. Kimble peered through the spy-hole and ascertained for his own peace of mind that it was indeed Noah Newman, though he appeared to be alone. Kimble unlocked and opened the door.

"Hello, doc. Sorry to barge in on you like this."

"Noah. What's up?"

Leaning heavily on a single crutch, the young man reached behind his back and gave something a tug. A little girl, no more than ten, her eyes wide and nervous, stepped forth. "This is Mel—Melanie—Clements," Newman said. "Doctor Kimble, Mel."

"Hello." Kimble could not help but wonder what fresh hell was to be sprung upon him now. "How are you?"

"I'm okay," the girl whispered. She glanced up at Newman. "Should I get him now?"

"Uh huh."

"Get who—?" Kimble began ominously.

Newman flagged him to wait. "Spooky," he said bewilderingly. "Though I think you called him by a different name."

The girl crept round the corner, a pet carrier wider than her torso was long hugged protectively to her chest. She bit her bottom lip. "Noah says Spooky used to belong to you. He thought you might like to see him again." With that she held the carrier out toward him, turning it so that the wire panel met him foremost. The creature within was clearly visible. A tortoiseshell cat, with medium length hair, its combination of colors and patterns distinctively unforgettable.

"Quint?" Kimble breathed, making no move to touch the pet carrier.

The cat stared up at him, its yellow eyes almost fully dilated. It lifted its head, nostrils working to assimilate Kimble's scent.

"According to the records, your Quint and Mel's Spooky are one and the same," Newman said with considerable satisfaction.

"How—?" Taking care not to startle the cat, Kimble eased one hand up against the wire mesh.

"Uh—Sam asked me if I could find out what became of him."

Spooky began to purr.

Half blinded, Kimble reached out and relieved the little girl of her burden. Swallowing hard, he looked up at the tall blond deputy. "Come in," he said. "Both of you."

"Oh, doc, I didn't—"

"There's cake in the kitchen," Kimble interrupted him. "You and—and Mel, help yourselves."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Hands on the shoulders of his apprehensive charge, Newman apologized, "Sorry, doc, but I don't know where the kitchen is."

Kimble waved him toward the open door opposite the foyer wall. "Right there. Plates on the right of the sink; glasses on the left. Milk in the fridge; carrot cake on the counter." He could not have managed more. Inhaling shakily, he carried his prize into the living room. The overstuffed chair took him into its embrace as he sank bonelessly, heedlessly down. Trembling fingers unclasped the hinges and drew open the door.

The cat continued its throaty greeting.

"Hey, Quint," Kimble whispered. With a deliberateness approaching reverence, he extricated the animal from the carrier, which he then placed on the floor. The cat he settled on his lap, and there he held it, unresisting, while he stroked its smooth, sleek fur from withers to tail, again and again.

In the miraculous person of this small, rare male tortoiseshell, Kimble had re-established an instantaneous link to his past. Helen, his beloved Helen, had once cradled this very creature in her warm, living hands, had taken comfort in his heat, had offered comfort in return—just as Kimble did now.

For long moments he struggled against the emotions welling up, filling his chest, his head, his eyes, threatening his restored, but all too recently enameled composure. Quint _knew_ him. The rasp of his tongue on Kimble's palm declared his unforgotten affection as clearly as words. Quint himself was whole and sound. _Alive._ An unacknowledged constriction slowly loosened its coils from around Kimble's heart. Thanks ultimately to Samuel Gerard, he now knew that _something_ had survived the devastation of that January night a year and a half ago. Survived and endured.

A tentative step seized the cat's attention. Mel Clements, her face somber with doubt, stood just inside the living room.

"You've taken good care of him," Kimble said.

"He likes me."

"I'm sure he does. And—it was extremely kind of you to bring him." With hands disinclined to obey, Kimble returned the cat to his carrier. Quint let out a questioning _mrow_. "But I think he'd probably like to go home now."

Some of the tension drained out of the child's body. "Will you—want to see him again?"

"Oh, probably not." He fastened the clasps, fixing Quint's image—every hair, every whisker—in his brain. "It would only confuse him," he said lightly, pressing the carrier into her arms.

Her troubled brow betrayed her uncertainty. "He likes you too." Taking care not to jar the container, Melanie propped herself on the edge of the sofa, Quint in her lap.

"He used to belong to the doc," Newman reminded her. He hovered nervously in the doorway.

"How was the cake?" Kimble asked.

"Great."

Melanie nodded in agreement.

Dropping his hands onto his knees, Kimble rose in a single, economical motion. "You wait here, Mel. Noah's going to help me cut a big piece of cake for you to take home."

"Really?"

He ruffled her hair as he walked past the end of the sofa. "Come on, Noah." Kimble gestured toward the kitchen with a tilt of the head. It was not a request.

Footsteps dragging, Newman followed.

"You said Sam put you up to this?" Kimble found the cake knife newly washed and dried in its place in the drawer. He bent over to retrieve the roll of wax paper and a handled plastic bag, both of which he set on the counter next to the cake dish.

"Not exactly."

"What, exactly?" He peeled off a square of wax paper.

"He was giving me something to do. Not that he expected me to turn anything up." Newman dropped his eyes, staring wretchedly at his shoes, then up again, a little challengingly. "It was my idea to bring Mel and Spooky—Quint—here. Thought you'd be glad to see him. That it would be all right."

The grievance in the deputy's voice made Kimble want to laugh—or cry. Had he ever been that young?

"How difficult was it to find him?"

Newman shrugged. "Just a lot of calling around. The Humane Society keeps really good records. They work with other groups—non-profit adoption groups. Between them, I was able to get a recent address—Mel's family had moved a year ago. A few more calls, and I found them."

"She trusts you."

"I—uh—promised you wouldn't try to take the cat back. I wasn't wrong, was I?"

"No." Kimble folded the wax paper around a huge square of carrot cake. "What about you? How are you coming along?"

"Few more weeks in therapy. Then a week or two in retraining."

Kimble measured out another chunk of carrot cake and wrapped it up. "That's for you." He put both pieces into the plastic bag. 

"Dr. Kimble—"

"It's okay, Noah," Kimble cut him off. He waved the deputy toward the doorway.

"Sam's going to kill me," Newman muttered.

"Not for this."

Melanie stood in the corridor, waiting, alerted by the sound of their approaching voices. The cat was a motionless curl of fur inside the carrier, the opportunity for a nap too good to pass up.

"Here's your cake." Kimble's chest was tight; he longed to touch just one more time. "Noah will carry it for you; you've got your hands full."

The girl shifted from one foot to the other. "He didn't tell me that we'd make you sad."

Her words cut as cleanly as a scalpel. To admit the truth would burden the child with unwarranted guilt; yet, she deserved better than a lie. Pasting on a rough smile, he admitted, "I've been much sadder not knowing where he was or how he was. In fact, I thought he was dead."

She blinked. "We had a puppy once. She ran away. I never found out what happened to her. It was awful."

"Yes. That's much worse."

"If you _ever_ want to see him again—" she started quickly, then let the words trail off, overwhelmed by what she was offering.

"Then I'll get your address from Noah." He glanced at the carrier. "And you can tell me then if it's okay to visit. Will that be all right?"

"Yeah." Her face lit up. "I can do that."

"Let's go, Mel, before your folks start worrying about you," Newman said. "Thanks for the cake, doc."

"Oh, yes, thank you," Melanie chimed in. She watched Kimble with the totality of a child's trust.

"You're both welcome." Kimble showed them to the door and held it open, letting a single finger brush against Quint's carrier as the cat went out of his life forever. "Good night," he called softly after them.

Alone once more, Kimble spent some moments tidying the kitchen and refilling his cup. He switched the lights off as he moved through the apartment. In front of the wide, picture window, he ended his day, sipping tepid coffee in the darkness, staring out into the night.

* * * * *

The following morning Kimble went to the hospital to consult with a doctor who had requested his help regarding a delicate case. In the end his advice was all that was needed, and he was able to reach the police range in good time.

He found the sign-in desk per Gerard's instructions, as well as the deputy marshal himself. Tension radiated from him like blue sparks; Kimble marveled at the absence of scorch marks on the walls surrounding them. He wondered what had happened to set Gerard off. After displaying two picture IDs and the contents of his gun case and accessories bag, Kimble was cleared to join him.

"Good morning, Sam," he said.

"Richard. This way."

Gerard struck off down a seemingly endless corridor, carrying his sleek, black case, hearing protectors slung round his neck, Glock holstered on his hip. When there was nowhere to go but left or right, he quick-marched to the left. Ten feet later, he halted before a solid steel door. He extended his left arm and twisted the knob to enter—and only then did Kimble register what until now he had failed to notice. Gerard's sling was gone.

They stepped inside, signed in for a second time with the officer in charge of the range, then took their place in the last firing stall on the right. In silence, they prepared to shoot, mounting the target and sending it down the track; in silence, they organized their ammunition—in boxes, magazines, and Kimble's speed-loader—on the metal shelf welded onto the frame of the half-door; in silence, they slid their hearing protectors into position; and, in silence they determined their shooting order by an exchange of polite gestures.

Kimble fired first, emptying five shots into the target at a distance of twenty-five feet. He ejected the brass casings, twisted five more bullets into the chambers using the speed-loader, and discharged all five rounds in double-action, rapid-fire mode.

While Kimble reloaded both speed-loader and revolver, Gerard activated the pulley to return the target. "Not bad," he commented. "Good grouping, in fact. You could improve your stance and your grip, but you don't flinch."

"Show me."

Gerard pushed the button and the target flew away, fluttering downrange like a startled ghost. All hard-faced concentration, he raised his Glock, sighted down the barrel, and with hands positioned very precisely round the grip, ripped off fifteen shots that continued to ring in Kimble's ears long after the bullets had cleared their casings. The target came back, its silhouetted torso pockmarked in the center, its head a gaping hole.

"Not bad," Kimble said, matching Gerard's tone and inflection exactly. In fact, it was stunningly impressive for under three seconds of effort.

The tiniest flicker of a smile, perhaps only imagined, lifted the corners of Gerard's mouth. He stripped out the magazine, replaced it with a full one, and extended the pistol, muzzle pointed downrange, for Kimble to take. "Try it. It has more stopping power than your thirty-eight."

Setting the Smith and Wesson on the shelf, Kimble enfolded the Glock in his hand, taking a moment to gauge its weight and feel. "It's more solid than I expected. But light, too."

"Only the exterior is high-impact plastic; bore and internal workings are metal." Gerard occupied himself with refitting the target holder with a clean silhouette.

Lining up the sight with a dark spot at the end of the range, Kimble remarked, "Nice grip. Specials?"

"Yeah." Flexing his fingers, Gerard said, "Big hands."

Kimble had already noticed. He glanced up as the target hurtled down to the twenty-five foot marker.

"Stand like this," Gerard instructed, tapping at the toes of Kimble's shoes until his feet were separated by about fifteen inches. "Arms a little bent. That's right." He positioned Kimble's right hand so that it formed a "U" around the rear of the pistol. "Keep your firing thumb flat and parallel with the fingers on the other side; now close your grip, except for the trigger finger which rests on the _trigger guard_ —never on the trigger. Okay. Now with the other hand, line up your non-firing thumb so that it lies over the firing thumb, and wrap the rest of your fingers right over the firing fingers. Yeah. Just like that." Gerard was molding Kimble's fingers and hands to his exact specifications as he spoke, his touch deft and impersonal. "Now, when you shoot, you push forward with the firing hand and pull back, just a little, with the non-firing hand. Give it a try before you pull the trigger." He backed up a step. "Go ahead."

Taking a couple of seconds to adjust to the stance, Kimble obediently employed all that Gerard had said and demonstrated. In his opinion, the push-and-pull business seemed an unnecessary requirement. Nevertheless, he repeated the process several times before zeroing in on the newly placed target.

Kimble fired five shots.

"Feel it?" Gerard asked. "The control?"

"Yeah." Letting out a surprised laugh, Kimble wondered, "How come they never taught me that in the Navy?" He reached up and activated the pulley.

"They want quantity, not quality in the Service. Sailors are a dime a dozen; deputy marshals run closer to a quarter. What are you doing?"

After storing Gerard's pistol on the shelf, Kimble released the target. He dug a felt-tip pen from a pocket, stretched the paper flat on the side of the cubicle, and drew an elliptical shape, roughly ten inches long and five inches wide, in a clear spot outside the silhouette. "Want to see if I can hit this." He repositioned the oversized paper back in its brackets. The motor working the wires whined shrilly as it traveled downrange once more.

"Be easy at ten or fifteen feet," Gerard opined.

"How about fifty?"

Gerard's tight grin made Kimble think of predators. "For you or me?" the deputy marshal asked.

"You could hit that at fifty feet?" Kimble countered incredulously.

"It's my job, Richard." Scooping the pistol up, Gerard turned toward the end of the range. Without ceremony, he settled his hands round the grip, took aim, and clipped off ten shots.

From where he stood, Kimble could see that each round landed on or very near its predecessor—dead center in the wobbly ellipse he had drawn.

"Nice," he murmured.

"Easy," replied Gerard.

The ellipse was just about the length and width of Kimble's foot.

* * * * *

Late afternoon, they retired to a familiar cafe. Rosetti and Kelly were nowhere in sight, though Kimble would not have minded overmuch had the two detectives not only been there but had decided to make nuisances of themselves. He was flushed with success, Gerard's drawling approbation both for his ready intelligence and burgeoning skill with the Glock and his own thirty-eight still humming in his ears. Given a couple of hours of intensive, personalized practice, Kimble's abilities had vastly improved from not so bad to very good indeed. While it was unlikely he would ever duplicate Gerard's expertise with a target at fifty feet, there was no question that Kimble was shooting more accurately and with greater confidence than he ever had in his life.

Shown to a corner table and left with menus following a promise of coffee, the two men faced each other. Gerard glanced away, his mouth a hard line, just as it had been when Kimble had met him at the sign-in desk at the police range.

"What is it, Sam?" Kimble asked. The calm emphasis in his voice made it plain that he would tolerate no more evasion.

Blunt fingers fiddled with fork, knife, and spoon. "Heard you had some visitors last night," he said.

"Oh. Yes, I did."

Gerard looked up at him, his expression subtly changing from touchy to puzzled to measuring. "You're not upset," he stated.

It was not a question, but Kimble confirmed his conclusion with an unconcerned shake of the head.

"You do know that I did _not_ tell him to do that?"

"Yes, Sam. I _do_ know that."

"Newman can be an idiot sometimes," Gerard said in a low voice. "He didn't think—"

"You don't need to explain."

"Don't I? That young man needs his butt kicked for what he did. You were too kind to him, Richard."

"I suspect that's one reason he brought Quint's owner along with him. Don't worry, Sam. Once I got over the shock, I was actually very grateful to him."

Grimacing, Gerard raised both hands in surrender. "I give up. I will never understand you." Dropping his head, he gave Kimble a look from under his lashes. "Your cat was _the_ topic of conversation at the office this morning."

"You went to work?"

"Uh huh."

"The sling's gone; does that mean you've been cleared by your doctor?"

Gerard glared at him. "I stopped by to see how everyone was getting on and to find out what sort of mess my desk was in. And _my_ doctor said I could give up the sling at two and a half weeks."

"Yeah, okay," Kimble said placatingly. "Two weeks for fifty and over; three weeks for forty and under. You do fall somewhere in between, don't you?"

"Yes, Richard, I do," Gerard conceded tightly.

"Even though it's a few days shy of two and a half weeks," Kimble pointed out.

"Even though."

"Whoa—Newman was there too, right? Has _he_ been cleared by _his_ doctor?" Once Newman had been released from the hospital, he had fallen under the care of his own physician.

"Yes." The single word was bitten off at both ends. "Provisionally." Gerard opened his mouth to continue but their waitress arrived at that very moment. After sorting out the details of their orders, exchanging pleasantries, and settling into coffee preparation, Gerard said nothing.

"Go on, Sam," Kimble said pleasantly. He watched the cream dribble out of its little tub. "You were talking about my cat."

"Biggs wanted to know where you got its name from." The plastic stirrer moved briskly in Gerard's fingers.

"'Quint?'" Kimble was amused. "Were there any suggestions?"

"Noah—he's been watching too much TV—thought you'd named it for the blacksmith on _Gunsmoke_."

"The blacksmith on _Gunsmoke_ —" Kimble dredged at his memory. "Oh, yeah! Wasn't that played by what's-his-name? Bart, no, Burt Reynolds?" He broke into an understanding grin. "Of course. The story's about _Marshal Dillon_. No wonder Newman watches it."

"Were there two?" Gerard asked abruptly.

Kimble went blank. "Two of what?"

"Cats."

Kimble's coffee mug came to a stop an inch from his mouth. "Yes."

"That was _my_ guess." Gerard raised a brow. " _Turn of the Screw._ " When Kimble said nothing, he went on, "Biggs was shocked when I suggested it. Couldn't believe a famous doctor like you would name his cat after a character in a porno flick."

"Jesus."

Very softly, Gerard probed, "What happened to Jessel?"

"They didn't get along." _That_ memory had not surfaced for many years. "One of Helen's friends took her."

"The books." Gerard sipped at his coffee. "In your townhouse. Henry James was well represented. And, of course, you mentioned that opera by—"

"Britten," Kimble said absently. _Such a long time ago, he thought. He and Helen in their perfect life, their perfect home, their perfect substitute family._ "Helen originally named them Puffball and Fluff."

"Then they turned into a pair of demons. I guessed. You were the one who renamed them, right?"

"You're uncanny, Sam." Kimble felt strangely and uncomfortably vulnerable. "Why'd you put Newman up to it? Finding out about Quint, I mean?"

"You're an absolutist." Gerard sprinkled more sugar into his cup. "You'd always have wondered, Richard. You'd always have regretted. Now, you know."

"Yeah. Now, I know." Their waitress swooped down again, splashing hot coffee into both half-empty mugs without asking if refills were even wanted. Before they could object, she was gone.

"He's working on some of the other names on your list." Gerard made a face as he reached for the sugar. "If you'd rather he didn't, I'll tell him to leave it alone."

In the middle of prying open another container of cream, Kimble glanced up. Gerard's expression gave him pause. "You've been awfully kind to me, Sam." He cleared his throat. "And I'm grateful. If it keeps Newman busy, and he doesn't mind, then I have no objection. The sooner I find those people, the better."

"There aren't that many left."

"No." Each name was indelible in Kimble's mind. "One or two I may never track down—or figure out how I can 'fix' what I did. The travelers at the truck stop, for example—I stole some clothes out of their camper while they were inside eating; Elliott Tilley—"

"Tilley had two boys; ten and eight. Maybe you could put them through college or something."

Gerard's sarcasm bounced right off him. " _College_ ," Kimble echoed. "Sam, that's a _great_ idea."

"Richard—!"

Unthinking, Kimble reached out and gave the deputy marshal's forearm a squeeze. "A great idea." He withdrew his hand, a little startled by his own temerity. "Does Newman have the family's address? Better still, their lawyer's name and address?"

"I'm sure," Gerard said evenly, "he does. And he can get whatever you need."

"Is it all right to ask him to do that?" Kimble inquired anxiously, uncertain whether Gerard disapproved of his plan or was just being his usual prickly self. "He won't get into trouble?"

Shaking his head slowly from side to side, Gerard assured him, "It's all right. You just let me know when you've paid your debt to society, okay? Maybe by then Newman will be ready to get back to his regular job."

"Okay." Affection bubbled dangerously near the surface. "Did you memorize that whole damn list the other night?"

Gerard nodded. "The whole damn list."

"Sam—"

"What?"

The words seized up somewhere between his brain and his mouth. What, exactly, did he want to say, anyway? _I'm falling in love with you? I dream of sleeping with you all the time? I want to marry you?_ Kimble choked back a ragged laugh. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

Eyeing him suspiciously, Gerard growled, "Somehow, I don't think that's what you meant to say." He raised a hand before Kimble could argue. "If it's something you want me to know, you'll tell me when you're good and ready."

"Probably not," Kimble muttered under his breath—and blessed the timing of their waitress, who arrived at that moment with their orders.

* * * * *

Sunday thundered in with roiling, black clouds, flashes of lightning, and intermittent squalls. Kimble pottered about his apartment in the morning, reduced to doing nothing and going nowhere. He had ruefully turned down an offer from Gerard to take in a film in the afternoon, forced to plead a previous engagement. His excuse was bona fide. Kathy Wahlund was back from her vacation, and he had arranged to meet her for lunch. Even so, he had deliberated whether to cancel, knowing that she would understand if he were to reschedule. The problem was, and Kimble squirmed at the knowledge, he wanted _too_ much to spend his hours with Samuel Gerard, and was quite prepared to go to great lengths to do so. Balancing that purely selfish urge, however, was the fear that if he were not careful, the true spectrum of his feelings would become plain, and Gerard would bid him a disgusted good bye.

So he had elected to do the honorable thing and turn the deputy marshal down. Gerard accepted his rejection graciously—though, and perhaps it was only more wishful thinking—Kimble had sensed the slightest hint of disappointment in his reply.

Tanned, glowing with health, and smiling with welcome, Wahlund greeted him for lunch in the lobby of a restaurant they had grown quite fond of through the years. At first sight, they fell into each other's arms for a crushing, endless hug.

"You are looking super, Kath," Kimble exclaimed. "Where in Key West was it you went?"

"I'm not telling. Besides, they don't encourage people like you to go there."

"You animal," Kimble purred, his voice discreetly lowered before the advent of their host.

Through soup, salad, entree, dessert, and after-dessert coffee, they regaled each other with their recent experiences. In putting words to those events, Kimble was astonished to discover so much had happened in so short a time; Wahlund, for her part, professed surprise at the _new_ Richard Kimble.

"What do you mean, _new_?" Kimble asked.

Wahlund produced a warm chuckle that was both teasing and tender. "Richard, you're _happy_."

"Happy?" Kimble parroted. Like a child fresh from the mudhole steered before a mirror, he was forced to undertake a quick re-evaluation; in his case, however, it involved a run-down of his emotions rather than a shopping list of dirty body parts. The results were unexpectedly revealing. "You're right," he said, caught somewhere between chagrin and satisfaction. "I guess I am."

"Why? What's happened? Before I left for Florida, you were looking pale and scrawny, and you were having rotten dreams. What's changed?"

One corner of his mouth sketching a crooked grin, Kimble shrugged. "My hours have improved; I'm catching up on my sleep—"

"Do you still have nightmares?"

"Not nightmares, no," Kimble replied conscientiously.

"And clearly you're still seeing that Gerard. That whole business with Quint is absolutely amazing!"

"He's been a good friend, Kath."

"Hm." Studying him assessingly over the rim of her coffee mug, Wahlund drew small invisible circles on the glazed surface. "What about women? Are you seeing anyone?"

Kimble broke into laughter without thinking. "No."

She frowned at him. "Why'd you laugh?"

"Ah—Nothing. Just me. Pay no attention."

"You're up to something, Richard," she said.

"I'm not, Kath. Really. Ignore me." He snatched up her hand and held it between both of his. "I missed you. It's good to have you back."

"Somehow," Wahlund observed without rancor, "I don't think I was missed all that much."

* * * * *

Striking off earlier than usual for the high school running track Monday morning, Kimble reflected that school was now out and they need not worry about working around the student body. Another hour would elapse before Gerard's sleek sedan glided up the curved drive. He preferred to be there, however, waiting for him, rather than sitting at home, drinking too many cups of coffee.

The warmth-edged coolness of the hour filled his lungs and stroked his face, skimming pixy-light fingers through hair still wet from the shower. Silly, really, to have bathed before their walk as they barely worked up a sweat at their current pace, making a second round of ablutions not really a necessity, though he felt for the sake of convention that he must do so. This excessive attention to personal hygiene—he admitted to himself and no one else—stemmed from that old urgency to present one's self in as positive a light as possible before the object of one's affections.

 _Samuel Gerard. The object of my affections._ Kimble felt his heart play leapfrog at sight of that very object strolling toward him from the opposite direction. A slow, uncontrollable grin wreathed Kimble's face. "I'm an idiot," Kimble said aloud, but well out of Gerard's hearing. _But I'm happy._

Gerard explained his earlier-than-usual arrival by saying that he had awakened early, it had been too light to go back to sleep, and he had intended to get in a few laps before Kimble arrived. Now that they were both ready, there was no reason to dawdle. Kimble voiced his agreement and fell into stride alongside the other man.

They discussed inconsequentials, Gerard probing at length regarding Kimble's date with Wahlund. Some moments passed before Kimble picked up on the hint of reproach in the deputy marshal's voice when he spoke of _Doctor_ Wahlund—almost Kimble, mused, as though he disliked her. Changing the subject with ease, he apprised Gerard of the contents of the letter he had found in his postbox upon returning home yesterday afternoon.

"Jim Hanley." Gerard wiped sweat off his upper lip and forehead. "Lucky you."

"He was very polite," Kimble said. "Very grateful, too. He mentioned you."

Scathing eyes cut sidelong at him, then away.

Blithely, Kimble continued, "Said that you were to be commended for inspiring me to make restitution on behalf of the USMS." Had Gerard been a cat, his tail would have been the size of a baseball bat.

"'Inspiring. _I_ inspired _you._ "

"Uh huh."

"Jim Hanley," Gerard pronounced categorically, "is a dickhead."

"At least he ought to leave you and your kids alone for a while."

Another slicing glance. "You said you didn't do it for me."

"I didn't—not directly. If you benefited—and I was going to do it anyway—what's the big deal?"

His reply was an unintelligible hiss. Kimble beamed silently to himself. Too bad the deputy marshal did not have a tail; he had the vocalizations down pat.

* * * * *

Monday came and went, a mild-tempered day.

The same could not be said for Tuesday, despite an inoffensive beginning. Sunshine crept out from under the heavy cloak of night, growing clearer and brighter, more colorful and more brilliant with each post-dawn minute.

Humming, Kimble parked his car in the garage located next to the hospital. Humming, he made his rounds. Humming, he settled at his desk with a recent and still fairly flavorful cup of coffee. And humming, he floated away on buoyant reveries. Such was his mood that he actually indulged himself in a fantasy wherein he grilled Samuel Gerard about sex—with men in general, with one man in an exclusive relationship, with _him_ , in particular. Gerard's invented responses, while understandably hesitant coming from a heterosexual, ultimately provoked Kimble to carefully take him by the hand and solicitously guide him into his bedroom.

_"Let me show you," Kimble breathed, bending forward to touch—_

Not for many hours did he realize that it had been then, in the middle of _that_ thought, that the day had cast off its luster. When recollection of it stumbled unluckily across the minefield in his head, Kimble felt a fool for having entertained it in the first place. By then depression had settled in, pervading every corner of his being, leaving no room for whimsy, much less dreams of requited love.

He came home well after dark, stood for half an hour under the shower as though scalding water might strip off the anguish that clung like ashes. Seeking respite in the kitchen, he baked cornbread until half past eleven, his eyes burning, his ears ringing, his body vibrating with fatigue. Into the unlit living room he took his plate of honey-sweetened bread and a glass of milk. Looking out upon the still, sleeping neighborhood, he doubted that whimsy would ever glance his way again.

Some while later, an atonal burr of noise tore through the quiet. The main door buzzer. Resentment added tension to Kimble's already knotted muscles; it was ridiculously late for drop-in visitors. He briefly considered ignoring its peremptory summons. Then civility, as integral a part of him as the color of his eyes, prevailed, and he went to the intercom. "Yes?"

"Gerard."

Kimble knew that voice, though he had not heard in it the same degree of hardness and hollowness since their early days. "Push." He depressed the mechanism to release the downstairs lock.

He waited inside the half-open door, marking Gerard's arrival the instant he stepped out of the elevator, making use of the instant before he himself was noticed to freely study the other man. The deputy marshal's face was engraved with weariness, lines—of which he already had an abundance—cruelly underscoring the contours of taut flesh from nose to jaw, the outline of eye sockets, the tuck of his chin. He looked wounded and bruised.

Sensing surveillance, Gerard looked up. Wincing in empathy at the bleakness staring back at him, Kimble waved him inside. "On a scale of one to ten, how was your day?"

"Minus thirty," Gerard said. He went straight through the entry into the living room, hands thrust deep into trouser pockets, his shoulders slightly bowed.

Never having seen Gerard other than ram-rod tall, Kimble neglected his guest just long enough to swiftly prepare another plate of cornbread and a glass of milk. He carried both into the living room, placed them on the table, and switched on the nearest lamp to the lowest setting.

Standing at the window, Gerard swung around at the soft chiming of dishes. Requiring no further invitation, he went to the sofa and sat down. A huge chunk of cornbread disappeared in a single gulp, immediately followed by half the glass of milk. Without speaking, he rose, walked into the kitchen, and returned with a bread knife and a tub of whipped butter. Settled once more, he liberally coated his next bite. "Your day lousy, too?"

"Minus thirty," Kimble said, hands in his pockets. "With a wind chill."

Gerard heaved a sigh. "You lost a patient."

"Two."

"Sorry, Richard." Gerard popped the cornbread into his mouth and ground his jaws together. Kimble wondered if he even recognized the substance caught between his teeth.

"Did you have to kill someone?" he asked. He subsided onto the sofa a few feet away from him.

Gerard's eyes swept over him, assessing, a little surprised. "No." Another sigh. "An old friend died in a shooting in Boston. Outside the municipal courthouse. Ex-husband opened up on his wife—took out a dozen people. Hospitalized fifteen more."

"Who was he? Your friend."

"A guy named Stuart Browning. Hadn't seen him for a few years." Gerard waved a piece of bread in the air. "It's stupid to—" He cut himself off.

"What was he doing in the municipal courthouse?"

"Stu's a lawyer. One of the better ones." He bent his head over the fluted glass of milk gripped too tightly in his other hand.

"When did it happen?"

"Late this afternoon. About four."

Eyes falling shut, Kimble concentrated on the man near him. His idiosyncratic scent, clean and a little musky; the pattern of his respiration, unusually slow as befit a healthy man; even the heat emanating off his body, almost tangible for all that there was space between them. He felt better for Gerard's presence. It comforted him, revived him. And in a way, Gerard's pain ameliorated his, made it more containable, even redefined it so that it could be viewed in a new perspective.

"I slept with him for three years," Gerard said.

Kimble stopped breathing. His entire body felt as though it had been sprayed with a fine, cold mist. That shocking instant in the county lockup when Gerard had called his name; the moment in Wahlund's office when he had finally understood Nichols' part in Helen's murder; the agonizing eternity in the Hilton Towers laundry when Gerard had spun around, weapon trained on Kimble's chest, his features frozen, his eyes polished stones. Then as now Kimble was momentarily incapable of lucid thought.

Gerard was watching him. Waiting.

"What—happened?" Kimble turned to face him. "Between you, I mean?"

An eyebrow twitched dismissively. "He was offered a partnership in a prestigious law firm—" the way Gerard enunciated _prestigious law firm_ left no doubt as to his opinion of it "—in Boston. Stu didn't feel he could turn it down. So—he didn't." He shook his head, a twisted smile tempering the words to follow. "Don't misunderstand. I didn't blame him."

Kimble asked, "Did you love him?"

Wielding the blunt-edged knife with slow grace, Gerard thoughtfully slathered butter on the remaining piece of cornbread. "At one time," he replied quietly, "I loved him very much."

Helpless, Kimble mumbled, "I'm sorry, Sam." He stood, walked behind the sofa, hesitated. Following his instincts, he reached out and gripped Gerard's shoulder, feeling a slight tremor under his palm. "Ellen Morgan died on the table while we were repairing an aortic aneurysm in her groin; she was sixty-seven, knew she was at risk. She had stipulated preoperatively that we were not to undertake any extraordinary procedures—including defibrillation if her heart conked out." Kimble let go and walked toward the window, collecting his glass and raising it to his lips. The moisture eased the constriction in his throat. "Pat Kwiecien was fifteen. Had an arterial/venous fistula—the artery feeds directly into a vein rather than a network of capillaries the way it's supposed to—which ruptured on his way home from school. Even though he'd lost a lot of blood, I thought he was stabilized. Something happened—an autopsy would tell if his mother would approve it; I don't think she will. But I suspect a clot. We lost control. He went fast. Before we could do anything about it, he'd suffered severe oxygen deprivation. Brain seizures, cardiac arrest. His mother asked to have him removed from life support an hour later."

Kimble turned and leaned back against the window frame. The chill of night, honed by darkness, sliced through the glass behind him, passed right through the thin fabric of his shirt, and cut successively deeper seemingly to his core. Seized by a head-to-toe shudder, Kimble left his perch to draw the curtains. The protection they offered was more illusory than real; but, tonight, illusion was better than nothing.

"It's late, Sam. I'm exhausted, and I'm going to bed." Kimble tipped his head in the direction of the bedroom, wordlessly enjoining the other man to accompany him. "There's room for both of us, if you want to sleep over," he said simply. "Or there's the spare bed in the other room, if you'd be more comfortable there."

Gerard's expression was bare, his face grey with mourning and a weariness that transcended mere fatigue. He shook his head. "I can't. I've got to be up really early. Won't even make tomorrow's run."

"I _have_ an alarm clock." He had not intended to plead; the truth of the matter was that he wanted Gerard to spend the night.

"Need a change of clothes, too."

"You can borrow a shirt and tie. They'll fit okay." Kimble gestured toward the deputy's trousers. "Your blue jeans should be good for another day or two." He raised a hand as though to forestall further argument; Gerard, however, was staring at him. "And don't worry. You know I don't snore any louder than you do."

That, at last, lent a faint curve to Gerard's mouth. "Thanks, Richard." He rubbed a hand over his haggard face. "I'm ready to drop."

"I know."

That night they shared Kimble's bed—not in the many ways he had dreamed of and willingly fantasized, but companionably—just two men taking refuge from the casual cruelties of life. Kimble lay awake for only a few moments after Gerard had fallen asleep, listening to his slow, constant breaths, the soft settlings of cloth and flesh as he yielded to unconsciousness. Though Kimble had affected calm acceptance, he had been staggered by Gerard's revelation, not so much surprised as disbelieving that something he wanted so very much might be his for the asking.

If he only dare ask.

If in fact he really _wanted_ to ask.

In the morning, to spare Gerard any residual uneasiness and to afford himself time in which to organize his thoughts, Kimble made certain that he was up well before his companion. He prepared breakfast on tiptoe, scrambling eggs quietly and browning slices of bread in the oven to avoid the spring-action of the toaster. He postponed grinding fresh coffee until snuffling noises were audible in the bedroom.

"Smells good," Gerard called out.

"Shirts and ties in the closet," Kimble called back. "Help yourself. But make it snappy. Coffee is starting _now_." With that, he activated the grinder.

They breakfasted over the morning edition of the newspaper. The report on the shooting in Boston took up much of the front page. Kimble handed the first section over without comment following a cursory perusal. A grainy picture of Stuart Browning, who had been born and schooled in Chicago, suggested handsomeness of disposition as well as features, a profusion of blond hair, and a smile that made Kimble's teeth ache. Yet Stuart Browning, he thought unkindly, had been an exceedingly stupid man to have chosen a law firm in Boston—no matter how prestigious—over Samuel Gerard.

For his part, rested and once more the strictly disciplined individual Kimble knew best, Gerard bolted his meal, chugged down his coffee—apparently unaffected by its heat and exceptional flavor—then pushed back from the table. The front section of the paper he carefully folded and handed back to Kimble. "Thanks, Richard," he said. "I do appreciate the hospitality."

"You're welcome." Regarding him appraisingly, Kimble remarked, "Nice tie."

Gerard's face softened into a grin. "My taste must be getting more flamboyant. Don't you own anything _subtle_?"

"That _is_ subtle!" Kimble objected.

"For you, maybe." His smile faded. "Gotta go. I'll be in DC for a day or so. Then I'm going to try to get to Boston for the funeral. I'll call you when I get back. Maybe by Friday. You'll be running on your own for the next few days."

Refusing to acknowledge the bitterness generated by these words, Kimble appealed, "Just don't send Noah, okay?"

"Not a chance. See you, Richard."

"Yeah. Bye, Sam."

As the front door closed, most of the locks setting automatically, Kimble slumped forward, staring blackly at the remains of his breakfast. The thought of anything more than coffee unsettled him. And, anyway, it was time for him to hit the road, too.

Maybe he could catch Wahlund in her office.

* * * * *

There was but one thing Kimble wanted that muggy, hot, ninth day of June; accordingly, it was the one thing he could not have. From the moment he walked into his office at Chicago Memorial Hospital, his time was co-opted by administrative exigencies which left him without a second to himself, or more importantly, a second to visit with Kathy Wahlund.

Pat Kwiecien's mother had been advised by her lawyer to sue the hospital for negligence. As questions of proper conduct made legal issues a fact of the modern hospital environment, a crisis team thoroughly trained and well-prepared had already assembled. It moved smoothly and decisively into action. Kimble was debriefed by administration, his deposition taken by a member of their legal department, and in a conference involving Pat Kwiecien's entire surgical team, the previous day's medical transcriptions were read through and discussed in detail. It made for a gruelingly long and unhappy ten hours.

The medical field had been in a state of flux at the time of Kimble's internship and residency, the old corps then in the process of unhappily and rather ungraciously deferring to the new. In the years since, he had seen malpractice insurance rates go from the reasonable to the absurd. Unlike some of his colleagues, he believed that doctors must be held accountable for their actions, up to and including having to pay damages for negligence. Regrettably, the "old boy" network often undertook great exertions to protect their own, deserving or not.

On the other hand, he was frankly confounded by the popular belief held by many Americans that dying was _not_ a natural aspect of living. With society a willing accomplice, a great deal of time and money was being invested in denying the existence of death altogether, so that in the inevitable event, resentment and outrage were considered more suitable responses than sorrow. It was no longer uncommon for the bereaved to call a lawyer before the funeral home.

While Kimble was all too acquainted with the darker feelings that could arise from a premature death, he also knew that nothing healed an aching heart better than genuine grief. Forbidden the traditional ceremonies of mourning, he himself had been forced to cope with Helen's loss while suspended in a kind of emotional limbo. Only recently, a year and several months after her murder, had that bone-deep ache abated to the occasional, acceptable twinge.

Just as it had not occurred to him to seek financial restitution from the state for his ordeal, so he found it disquieting that others should attempt to assuage their suffering through the acquisition of money. A million dollars, ten million dollars would not bring Pat Kwiecien—nor Helen Kimble—back to life.

In a foul mood by the time the crisis team had finished with him, Kimble kept a stranglingly tight rein on his temper while undertaking his rounds. A clearly exhausted Akbari accompanied him, having surpassed herself in covering for his absence throughout that interminable day. Afterward, he commandeered her notes and sent her home, committing the next hour and a half to bringing himself up to date on his living patients.

At ten o'clock he arrived home, tired, grouchy, and out of sorts. His mood was not improved when he played back his messages. He had missed a call from Gerard. The deputy marshal informed him tersely that he expected to be back late Friday or early Saturday; Stuart Browning's funeral would be held Friday at one. To Kimble's ears, Gerard sounded equally tired, grouchy, and out of sorts. He longed for a moment to chat with him, if only to let him know that he was in his thoughts. Gerard had not left a number where he could be reached.

In fact, the deputy marshal had lurked at the back of Kimble's mind through all the hours of questioning, through the endless forms and depositions, through the review of Akbari's detailed notes, through the unexceptional drive home. But now, irritable and numbed with fatigue, he could not be expected to pragmatically sort out his feelings for Gerard—or Gerard's for him; if, in fact, he had any other than friendship.

He picked disinterestedly through his mail only to be captured by one written by a youthful hand. Inside was a carefully composed and penned letter from Mel Clements. She thanked him for the delicious cake and asked him to keep her address in case he ever wanted to see Spooky again. Wrapped in a square of tissue paper was a photograph of Helen's tortoiseshell cat, sitting in a box, alert, well fed, and well loved. The child's thoughtfulness went some way to restoring Kimble's regard for humankind.

When the phone rang, blasting his idle musings into disconnected electrical impulses, the first clear mental image to form was that of Samuel Gerard. His heart battering violently at his ribs, Kimble reached for the phone, his veins singing with equal measures of trepidation and hope.

It was Kathy Wahlund.

"Oh—Kath. How are you?"

" _Not_ the person you wanted to hear from, from the sound of your voice," she said.

"You're wrong about that." Kimble tucked the picture of Quint back into the envelope from Mel Clements. "Tell me that we can get together tomorrow?"

"Sorry, Richard, no. I'm going to be at CCH all day."

"Friday?"

She laughed. That well known, soft throatiness was as comforting as a hug. "Well, that's really why I was calling."

Drawing a blank, Kimble said, "Why?"

"Friday night! We're going to dinner. Aren't we?"

"Oh. Friday? This Friday?"

"This Friday. But just say no if you can't make it."

What could he say? _I want to be here in case Sam calls?_

"Sorry, Kath, I did forget. Of course, we're on. But, I'd really like to talk to you before then. Any chance of us having lunch and dinner? If you can put up with me twice in one day, that is."

"You _are_ in a tizzy. Of course I can. But what happened to your friend the cop?"

"He's not a cop. And he's in Boston. For a funeral. I _need_ to talk to you, Kath."

"Lunch it is, then. My office? I could order pizza—or better still, Chinese?"

"Whatever you want," Kimble agreed, too relieved at having arranged a time to care about whether they ate at all. "I'll try to get there a little early. Maybe elevenish?"

"Elevenish—" Kimble could hear the smile in her voice. "—it is."

Making his good byes a moment later, Kimble slowly settled the handpiece in its cradle. _What on earth was he going to tell her?_

The impulse to sit and think—and think and sit—was almost irresistible. Gerard's admission had opened doors Kimble had not known existed. The notion of wooing the deputy marshal had been a mindless exercise, a harmless pastime. _I slept with him for three years."_ With those words, Gerard had taken Kimble's imaginings and launched them into the realm of possibility—and made him examine them anew.

Had he not been teetering on the edge of coma, he might have directed his footsteps toward the kitchen to embark upon a few constructive hours of baking. Rather, he let his feet deliver him into the bedroom and its en suite bath. Rationally, he was grateful to have the next two days in which to sift through these contradictory, volatile emotions without interference or biased persuasion. Emotionally, however, he desired nothing more than to leap into the depths of Gerard's mind, to see where, if anywhere, Kimble figured in his life—and, more importantly, in his heart.

But right now, a little bruised, a little sad, and more than a little edgy, Kimble sought comfort in the cool closeness of his solitary bed. Locking troublesome thoughts away until morning, he willed sleep to come to him, and it came. If there were dreams, they did not stick.

* * * * *

Thursday morning was a prolonged exercise in hurry-up and catch-up. The surgical schedule was empty, allowing Kimble and Akbari to tend to their patients, to their paperwork, and their unanswered messages. Word came down from administration that he would be needed late in the day. Grateful that no more than that would be required of him, Kimble settled into his work-load with a composed mind and a dogged spirit.

At noon, Akbari surprised him by extending an invitation to join her for lunch in the cafeteria. He agreed, by then needing a break from his desk and the record-keeping that was keeping him bound to it.

The cafeteria, as usual, exceeded maximum occupancy regulations as well as most noise pollution advisories. Akbari led the way, sliding her tray along the metal bars, speedily heaping it high with an eclectic mix ranging from the purely nutritional to the purely indulgent.

"You hungry or something?" The question was jolted out of him by the sheer quantity of food Akbari had amassed by the time they reached the cashier.

"Not just for me, doctor," she replied. With a toss of the head, she indicated someone amidst the multitude.

Blond hair, tied back in a pony-tail, topping a tall, lanky body caught Kimble's eye almost at once. He did not think it his imagination that Newman looked as uncomfortable as he himself felt. "Have I been set up?" he asked.

"Noah said he was going to bring something for me to give to you. He can give it to you himself."

"Gee, thanks, Akbari," Kimble said colorlessly. He followed his resident through the chattering hordes, silently observing that the ban on smoking was an overdue blessing, but wondering when the hospital would restrict use of the facility to staff, thereby ending the problem of overcrowding altogether. "Hello, Noah."

"Doc, Lydia." Newman stood up to shake Kimble's hand.

"How's the leg?" With his fruit plate and carton of juice arranged on a corner of the sidewalk-cafe-sized table, Kimble bent down to shove the empty tray under his chair for want of anywhere else to store it.

"Much better, thanks."

"Hear anything from Sam?"

Newman nodded, distracted eyes rounding at the amount of food being off-loaded from Akbari's tray. "He's off to Boston tonight. Said it'd probably be early Saturday before he got back."

Spearing a chunk of cantaloupe, Kimble kept his dismay to himself. "Akbari said you have something for me?"

Slipping two fingers into his breast pocket, Newman produced a sheet of paper folded into fourths. "The last names on your list."

For an instant, Kimble did not react. Then he set down his fork and unenthusiastically took Newman's offering. "Any surprises?"

Gravely, Newman said, "One or two."

Teeth set, Kimble poked the page, unread, into his coat pocket. "Thanks, Noah. I appreciate the help."

"No problem, doc."

Concentrating on dispatching his lunch with all haste, Kimble fell silent. Awkwardly at first, then with growing ease, Newman and Akbari conversed around him, sharing their news of the morning, making tentative plans for the following evening. They were, Kimble decided, a pleasant pair, however mismatched they might appear on the surface.

In his pocket, the completed reparations list begged his attention. _"One or two,"_ Noah had said. Death, destruction, misery? Whose misfortune might have been avoided but for a chance encounter with Richard Kimble?

The sound of his name penetrated his deepening introspection. "Sorry, what?"

Newman persisted, "I asked if you'd heard from Melanie Clements. She wrote to me. Said she was going to write to you, too." The subject was not one he enjoyed; his expression made that very clear. Yet Kimble recognized it for the olive branch that it was. Newman hoped to retrieve whatever he could of the situation.

"She sent me a picture of Quint," Kimble replied. "Sweet little girl. Lucky for Quint that he ended up with her."

"A good kid," Newman agreed, face brightening. "She went from being afraid that you would try to take the cat back to thinking she ought to offer to return him." Grudging admiration touched his face. "You won her over completely."

"The cake was probably a factor," Kimble pointed out.

Newman bent his head. "Maybe. She did mention it more than once."

Retrieving his tray, Kimble pushed back his chair. "Time I got back to work. Thanks for the information, Noah. No matter what."

Newman gazed up at him, looking more hang-dog than ever. "Sorry, doc," he murmured. "Wish it all could have been good news."

"Yeah. Bye, Noah. If you talk to Sam, tell him I said hello. Akbari."

"Four o'clock rounds," his resident said.

"I'm looking forward to it." Docking his tray on the first empty table in his path, Kimble strode out of the cafeteria. He chose to take the stairs up to his floor, counting on a little exertion to quell his inner turmoil. Once there, he took out Newman's report and swiftly scanned it.

_One..._

Outside a roadside cafe where Kimble had loitered with intent during the grueling trek back to Chicago following his escape, he had come across an unlocked camper. The owner of that camper, one Eric Shoemaker, whose clothing Kimble had stolen, was now dead. He had been mugged a week after his return to St. Paul; in resisting, he had been shot to death. Witnesses reported that he fought back because "I won't be robbed twice in two weeks.…"

_...or two._

Desmondo Jose Ruiz, janitor at Cook County Hospital, whose identification Kimble had filched, had been suspended from work for his failure to report the loss of his badge in a timely fashion, which transgression had allowed Kimble to breach security, resulting in a staff shake-down. While unemployed, Ruiz had taken consolation in drinking. During a prolonged and punishing bout he had suffered a massive heart attack. He had died alone in his rented room, his body found a week later.

Kimble walked round the desk to his chair, his movements slow and ungainly. Once seated, he spread the sheet out flat in the middle of the desk pad in front of him. "Thank you, God," he sighed, with heartfelt irony.

He had long ago recognized the harsh truth that Helen was murdered because of him. It cut as deeply to learn that in finding the people responsible, he had been the unwitting agent of two other deaths.

Kimble leaned forward, hiding his face in his hands.

The phone rang.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened up in his chair and punched the speaker button. "Yes?"

The steady contralto of the pool receptionist announced, "Sam Gerard on the line, doctor."

"Thank you," Kimble said. "Please put him through." He heard the soft click of connection. "Sam?"

"How you doing, Richard?" Gerard's robustness crackled over the phone lines, as bolstering as the strength of his well-remembered handshake.

"Okay. How's Boston?"

"Hot and sticky. And the people talk funny. Are you all right?"

"Hm? Yeah. Okay. Just had lunch with Akbari and your deputy."

"Not _my_ deputy. _I'm_ a deputy. But you're talking about Newman, I bet."

"Yes."

"What's wrong?"

Kimble turned his eyes up toward the ceiling. "Nothing, Sam."

"Newman gave you the list." There was no sentiment in Gerard's voice, only understanding. "Richard?"

"Yeah," Kimble said, his throat tightening. "He gave me the list."

"I knew you'd take it this way," Gerard said heavily. "But damn it, I am sorry. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I've got a Saturday morning flight," Gerard said.

"Do you need a ride from the airport?"

"No. Left my car at O'Hare. Richard, I've got to go. I'll see you this weekend, if you're not busy."

"Call me when you get in."

"I will." The line dissolved into static; Kimble wondered where Gerard had been calling from.

Cradling the phone, Kimble stared down at the sheet of paper. "I'm sorry," he whispered. The dead were beyond him—but there was much yet he could do for the living. He would work on that tonight. Tomorrow he would lunch with Wahlund. And, perhaps after that lunch, he would decide what to do about Samuel Gerard.

* * * * *

"Did you get _any_ sleep last night?" Kathy Wahlund asked.

Eyes at half-mast, Kimble essayed a grin, an arrangement of lines, shadows, and too-thin lips that would have looked disagreeable on a man of less physical appeal.

Surrounded by an army of small, white food cartons, they sat next to the window in Wahlund's office, overlooking the relatively new but already grimy parking structure that served the hospital. Judiciously doling out servings onto two plastic plates, Wahlund cast worried glances at her companion.

"Richard?"

"A few hours. Quit complaining, Kath. You wouldn't've gotten dessert otherwise."

She glared at him. "Yes, the chocolate peanut butter bars look scrumptious. But you'll forgive me for hoping that you were doing better."

"Believe it or not, I was. I am." Kimble reached for the plate held out to him. He inhaled the mingled aromas with pleasure.

"So, was it the interview with Administrator Carlson yesterday afternoon, or the information from Gerard's deputy that ruined your night?"

"Newman's not his deputy; they're both deputies. Or so I'm told."

Wahlund waited.

"Both," answered Kimble, resigned. "Neither. I don't know. I'm too tired to think. I ought to have called and canceled."

"Oh, Richard. That means you won't be coming tonight, doesn't it!"

Mouth full of rice, Kimble shook his head from side to side for emphasis. He swallowed. "I'm scheduled to clock out at three this afternoon. After a nap, I'll be fine."

Abashed, Wahlund apologized, "Don't be silly. Ignore me. Stay home and get a good night's rest."

"No. I'll be there. I'm looking forward to it."

"You're not," Wahlund said knowingly. "But I'm selfish enough to want you to come anyway." She poked a green bean with a chopstick. "It doesn't seem to end, does it?"

"You mean, Carlson, or Shoemaker and Ruiz? Carlson is taken care of for a while. Not that I envy him his job; I hate negligence suits. As for Shoemaker and Ruiz—"

"What will you do about them?"

"Don't know what I can do. Newman was thorough. Ruiz was divorced five years ago. No kids. No other family still living. Shoemaker was a loner. Retired. Living off social security." Kimble steered a forkful of snowpeas into his mouth. "Got a favorite charity?"

Wahlund ran a fingertip under the ever-present, bright red "Aids Awareness" pin attached to her jacket. "As a matter of fact—"

"I'll see to it," Kimble promised.

"I'm sure Ruiz and Shoemaker would be grateful," Wahlund commented through pursed lips.

"Actually, Ruiz might have been."

Wahlund raised her brows.

"He was gay."

"You're kidding!"

"Told you Newman was thorough. Apparently that was the cause of Ruiz's divorce."

Wahlund rested her chin in her palm. "Imagine that." She watched while Kimble ate, biding her time until he raised his head and once more met her gaze. "You've got forty-five minutes." She batted her lashes at him. "What did you really want to talk about?"

A squadron of butterflies strafed Kimble's insides. "Something personal," he confessed.

Wahlund's smile broadened. "Your sex life, or mine?"

He took a deep breath. "Yours—to start."

His answer seemed to flabbergast her. "I was only joking," she protested. Then she gave him a hard look. "Well, okay, if you're serious. But I'll let you know if things get uncomfortable."

"Right." Kimble's fork vacillated between the broccoli chicken and the cashew beef. "How old were you when you realized you were gay?"

"Thirty-two. I'm a late bloomer. Thinking of switching sides, Richard?"

"No," he said too quickly. Then: "Maybe." The fork plunged into the brilliantly colorful broccoli chicken.

Sobered, Wahlund considered him wonderingly. Collecting herself, she said, "You know I was married once. I was twenty-two, fresh out of college, when Glen and I met. Ten years later we split up. But _not_ because of that, my being gay, I mean."

"No?"

"No. I loved him." She bunched up her shoulders. "And I desired him, in case you were wondering. _I_ thought we were happy. But he left me for another woman. I was pretty devastated at the time. A couple of friends stepped in to help me through it."

"Gay friends?"

"No. But the sister of one of them was." Her face softened in reminiscence. "Bonny. She was attracted to me. Which of course got me thinking. I realized pretty quickly that I could feel that way too. We were lovers for a couple of years. And we're still friends."

Diffidently, Kimble probed, "So, are you more gay or bisexual now?"

"I guess I mostly prefer women," Wahlund replied easily. "Although—" She winked at him. "Some men do still catch my eye."

"To hear you talk, you don't have time for men among all your women."

With a complacent smile, she murmured, "Maybe I exaggerate a little." Expertly catching a sliver of almond between the tips of her chopsticks, she raised it to her lips and set it on her tongue. "And now you think you might be bisexual, too. Have I got that right?"

Abandoning his meal, Kimble sat back in his chair, forearms resting on the table. "Something's going on."

"In here?" She tapped the side of her head.

"Yes."

"There's someone you're attracted to?"

"Yes."

"Is he gay?"

"He's gay. That is, he used to sleep with another man—"

"That's pretty emphatically gay, Richard."

Kimble sighed.

"Has he said anything to you?"

"No. I don't think he's interested in me. Not that way."

"Just friends?"

"Looks like it."

"Are you _sure_ of that?"

"I'm not sure of anything, Kath."

Biting her lip, she studied Kimble uncertainly. "When did you start to feel this way? I mean, I know you were devoted to Helen. Did you ever—?"

"No." Beginning to regret the impulse that had brought him here, Kimble nevertheless replied candidly, "In the last couple of months, I've had a few dreams."

"They've been about you and this guy?"

"Yes."

"Describe them."

He exhaled abruptly. "They were just stupid dreams."

"Which now have you thinking about going to bed with him. Yes?"

Hooking an ankle across the opposite knee, Kimble slumped untidily in his chair. "Yes."

"What happened in those dreams?"

Examining the toe of his shoe, Kimble mumbled, "I kissed him." He looked up, just in time to catch the widening of Wahlund's eyes.

"And how did he react?" she asked. "In your dream?"

"He kissed me back."

"And?"

"And I woke up."

"That must have been an early one. What about later? The next dream, say?"

"Kath—" He stretched out his legs, then recrossed them, ankle and knee reversed. "We were in bed together."

"Was that okay with you?" she asked gently.

"Nothing happened."

"You were just—lying there?"

Kimble bared his teeth. "I was crying, okay? And he was holding me. That's all."

"And since then?"

"More. A lot more." He grimaced self-consciously. "And I wasn't crying."

She rolled her eyes. "And you a doctor. Are you in love with this man, Richard?"

He stared at her.

"Is it your friend Gerard?"

Kimble shrugged, then unwillingly nodded.

"Does he feel the same way?" she persisted.

"I don't know. I didn't even know about him, about that, until a couple of days ago."

Tiny lines gathered on her forehead. "But _you've_ been having these dreams—about you and him—for weeks. The ones that've had you baking at all hours of the night?"

It would be pointless to deny it. "Yes."

"Dreams of you and Sam Gerard kissing and hugging and lying in bed together. And 'more.'"

"Yes, Kath. That's what _I've_ been dreaming about."

"Richard." She tsked with exasperation. "Exactly how did you find out that he's gay?"

"He told me."

"Just like that?"

"Just—like—that." He forced himself to relax. "A former lover was killed in a shooting the other day. Gerard told me he'd slept with the man for three years. Just came right out with it."

"What did you say?"

"I don't know. I—Something about how long had he known the guy; why had they broken up? I didn't want to make a big thing about it."

"And he was okay, talking with you about his being a homosexual?"

"Seemed to be."

"Richard, do you love him?"

"I—" He rubbed his face. "Maybe." She was watching him, her eyes filled with understanding and compassion, not a trace of amusement or doubt. "Yeah, I love him." Defenseless, he said, "So what do I do?"

She shook her head. "You already know the answer to that. But," she went on softly, "are you brave enough to do it?"

"Brave? What's bravery got to do with going to bed with someone? Unless you're talking about—?"

"Richard," she snapped, "if he _matters_ to you, if you're really talking about _love_ here, it's got a _lot_ to do with it."

Kimble dropped his eyes. "Kath, did you ever—?" Words seemed to briefly abandon him. "Did you ever regret taking that step?"

Several seconds went by. When he looked up again, he found Wahlund studying her chopsticks.

She said, "It hasn't been easy. Gays frighten people—even other gays, sometimes." Her eyes, blue and forthright, came back to settle on him. He basked in her open affection. "But I know you; and I know you've thought this through. If you had any doubts about your feelings—that perhaps you just really _like_ Gerard, or that you're just super grateful to him—you would never have gotten this far." Pushing blond curls off her pale cheek, she went on, "But only _you_ know what you can live with. Sleeping with a man will be a new experience for you, I can guarantee it." Her mouth dipped into a fond smile. "And that's the easy part. Being aware of what others think, and seeing yourself differently. That'll be the hard part." She folded her arms in front of her. "You're wrong about him not being interested, you know. Totally wrong."

"You really think so?"

"You're too close to see things clearly, Richard. Gerard is committed to his job—and apologizing, or trying to make up for his mistakes is _not_ a part of it." She laid her hand on his forearm. "You're obviously _very_ important to him. And while I never expected you to return _his_ feelings, I suspected him of falling for you a long time ago."

"But he never—"

"No. And it's possible that a straight man would have done as much for you." She looked away, across the cafeteria, a slight frown gathering her brows. "But—"

"What?"

"It explains a lot, you know?"

Kimble said, more forcefully, "What?"

" _He_ came to _you_. Remember, Richard?" At his baffled expression, she went on, "He asked you to be his workout buddy. _You_. Didn't that ever strike you as a little bit crazy?"

"He was just—" Kimble started to argue before he had quite absorbed what she was saying. And then he stopped. Picked up his fork. His eyes took on a faraway look as he remembered that day. "I—hadn't thought of that." Gerard bringing him dinner. Kimble's discomfort. Gerard's easy, friendly, persuasive manner. Of all the people in Gerard's world, Gerard had asked _Richard Kimble_ to join him in some sort of exercise program. With Kimble choosing the sport. At the time it had seemed—a presumption, an imposition, and the very last thing Kimble wanted. But, reflecting on it now, it was probably the most un-Gerard-like thing he could ever imagine the man doing. He let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "Yeah, I thought it was crazy. It was crazy. Kath, that was _months_ ago. He couldn't—" He exhaled sharply. "Could he?" A sudden, impossible hope rose within him. Kimble said in a hushed voice, "I hope you're right, Kath."

"Oh, I think I am."

Glancing from the fried rice mounded on his plate to Kathy Wahlund's lovely blue eyes, Kimble pressed, "But you never answered me. Did _you_ regret taking that step?"

Their eyes met and held.

She sobered slightly. "A little bit. Once or twice." And then she smiled, a big smile that lit up her face. "But not enough to ever change my mind." Winking, she waved her chopsticks at Kimble's plate. "You'd better hurry up. Lunch is almost over."

* * * * *

Kimble's afternoon nap gave him a second wind. Unfortunately, he awoke late, having only enough time to shower and dress before bolting out of the apartment. Climbing into his car, he belatedly remembered that he had turned off the ringers on his phones. He ought to have checked his answering machine for messages. Of course, if Akbari or anyone else at the hospital had needed him desperately, someone would have been dispatched to his apartment to roust him out of bed in person. Since he had slept undisturbed, he presumed that there had been no emergencies—none requiring his attendance, anyway. Other messages would have to wait until morning.

Unless—

He hoped he had not missed a call from Sam Gerard.

Squelching the urge to turn the car around and drive back to his apartment, Kimble reminded himself that Gerard would return in the morning. They would talk then and arrange a time to get together.

Forcing his qualms to the back of his mind, Kimble applied his concentration to his driving. He owed Wahlund a lovely evening; he intended to make this one extra special.

* * * * *

Thanks to the show running late, an extended post-performance coffee-house review with the star (Wahlund's nephew) and his date in tow, and a recalcitrant old Ford (belonging to Wahlund's nephew) that did not want to start, Kimble entered his apartment nearer dawn than midnight. After the most perfunctory of ablutions, he fell into bed and slept instantly.

At nine o'clock, his eyes shot wide open. Feeling vaguely uneasy, but unable to remember a nightmare that could be held responsible, Kimble stumbled into the bathroom, where he splashed cool water on his face. He dried off, shaved, and brushed his teeth, then threw on a casual shirt and trousers. 

Attempting to tame his cowlicky hair, he found himself watching the bristles of the brush glide through the growing numbers of gray strands glinting amidst the brown. Eventually, it was his face that commanded his attention. The wear and tear of the last two years had caught up with him. He looked drawn despite having put back a few pounds; and he wore an expression of perpetual worry—no, not worry, strain. Screwing his face into an enormous frown, Kimble held it for no more than a second before breaking into a lopsided, ironic smile. There were, after all, worse things than gray hair, age lines, and loosening jowls. He set the brush on the counter and gave his head a shake. His hair promptly fell into the disarray it favored.

Kimble went to the kitchen, where he filled his cup with hot aromatic, fresh coffee. The message light on the telephone answering machine was blinking red, two quick flashes, a pause, two quick flashes repeated.

"Oh, shit," he breathed. He had forgotten to check again.

There were two recordings; both were from Gerard. Chagrined, Kimble listened to the deputy marshal informing him that he would be arriving back that very night—last night, now—and a beep later, announcing that he was already back in town. Gerard had not stated the time of either call, but Kimble's machine had made note of them—the last one was logged at just after two AM.

He dialled Gerard's number at once. On the fourth ring, that familiar voice answered. "Gerard."

"Hey, Sam," Kimble greeted. "How are you?"

"'Morning, Richard." Beat. "You got my message?"

"Not till this morning. Just now, in fact. Meant to check last night, but it was late when I got in."

"It was late when I called," Gerard said. "Did you and Dr. Wahlund have fun?"

"Yeah. We had dinner and took in a show. Her nephew's getting pretty good." Kimble bit his lip. "How about you? How did it go in Boston?"

The phone line echoed with Gerard's weary inhalation. "Stu would've been pleased. Though he undoubtedly would've been happier not to be there under those circumstances."

"Who would be?"

"That's usually true. Have things settled down at the hospital for you?"

"Mostly. I'm keeping a low profile. How about dinner tonight—if you're not busy."

The question drew silence. At last Gerard said, "Can't."

"Can't?"

"I'll be out of town through tomorrow afternoon."

"Out of town!" Kimble protested. "You've hardly gotten back! Aren't you due a—?"

"Richard, stop fussing. It's not business, okay?"

 _Not business?_ Had he heard right? " _Not_ business?" he repeated aloud.

"Just the opposite, if I'm lucky."

"You mean," Kimble almost choked on the word, _"pleasure?"_

Gerard's answering chortle was deep and full-bodied. Kimble wished he could reach down the line and crush that sound right in his throat. "If I'm lucky," Gerard said again.

It was difficult to think with the floodgates standing open and a million wildly conflicting thoughts threatening to overflow the banks. Not bothering to sort out the rude from the merely rash, Kimble blurted, "Sam, don't go!"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because—because I don't want you to," Kimble replied helplessly.

"'You don't want me to.' You disapprove, Richard, is that it?"

"No. I—"

"Come on, you've been dating; hardly a week goes by that you and Dr. Wahlund don't get together. And that's okay. Of _course_ it's okay. But it's no different for me—"

"You're not going out on a date, Sam. Sex with strangers is _not_ going out on a date." Shocked by the strident parochialism pouring out of his own mouth, Kimble strove for calm. "And, I'm not dating. Kath's just a good friend."

Another pause. Then gently, reassuringly, Gerard said, "Don't worry, Richard. I'll be careful."

"Sam!" Somehow, Kimble managed not to shout. "Sam. Please. Come to my place for dinner instead."

"Richard—"

"Already planned the menu. Beef stew. A helluva dessert, and I've laid in a couple of six-packs of Dos Equis."

"Don't do this."

Gravel all that he had left for a voice, Kimble forced out, "And condoms. A box of them, Sam. Ribbed. Neon. Flavored."

The silence was absolute. Eyes squeezed shut, Kimble steeled himself for the other man's answer. Instead, a loud click announced the end of their conversation. The line went dead.

When the harsh hum of the dial tone erupted in his ear, Kimble at last replaced the handpiece in its cradle. His coffee, scarcely touched, waited on the counter before him. He picked it up, raised it to his mouth, found it still warm, and tried a small sip. His stomach threatened mutiny. There was a roaring sound crashing inside his head. The banks had well and truly overflowed.

He said, "Shit."

What to do next eluded him. Try to call Gerard again? And if he answered, say what? In fact, what had he already said? Kimble could not recall their conversation in detail—only that he had blunderingly offered himself rather than sanction Gerard's taking comfort elsewhere.

He closed his eyes again. He had not gotten enough sleep, and he needed to eat something. Not that it would do any good; not after what he had—

The shrill squeal of the telephone squirted a fresh surge of adrenaline into his veins. Gritting his teeth, Kimble reached for the handpiece. "Hello?"

"What time is dinner?"

Not daring to delay even long enough to piece together his original offer, Kimble plucked a time out of the ether. "Six."

"I'll be there." The line went dead once more.

"Right," Kimble breathed. _Six_ , he had said. A glance at his watch told him that he had nine hours in which to prepare. His confidence in tatters, and suspended somewhere between apprehension and an emotion very like dismay, he groaned, "Oh, God. What do I do now?"

* * * * *

Sunshine and warm June air billowed in through the windows while Kimble dusted, vacuumed, polished, and scrubbed. His labors were undertaken not so much for Gerard as for himself, a peculiar but wholly personal way of recapturing the inner high ground. He had left himself uncomfortably vulnerable by pleading with Gerard to sleep with him rather than a stranger—and in essence, if not precisely in words, that was what he had done. Not only that, it was a particularly lousy way of establishing a relationship. But Gerard had agreed; and now it was up to Kimble to set the tenor of their evening and to be prepared both to yield only so much—or everything—and to defend his reasons to himself for the choice he made.

Just before noon, his domesticating was disturbed by a call from the hospital. Kimble recommended another assisting surgeon, only to be informed that he had been specifically requested by the anesthesiologist Victor Morgan. Gaining a few details over the phone, Kimble agreed to attend as an observer. The physician of record was a fine but often unconventional surgeon; his patient, a ten-year-old girl who had been struck by a taxi racing to the airport.

Kimble locked up the apartment and hurried down to his car, the aroma of crockpot beef stew woven like wide, plaid stripes into the fabric of his olfactory.

* * * * *

The afternoon was long gone. A hot, moist breeze evaporated the sweat on the back of Kimble's neck as he climbed the steps in front of his building. It was nearly six-thirty; not unexpectedly, there was no sign of Gerard's car on the street.

The triumph of successful surgery—the little girl would not only live but in all likelihood regain the full use of her left leg—receded now like flood waters in the aftermath of a violent rainstorm. He had tried to get a message to Gerard, but to no avail; both home and cellular phones had rung and rung endlessly, never answered.

He trudged into the lobby, ignored the elevator, and pulled open the heavy door leading to the stairs. Haste no longer imperative, Kimble took his time, letting his thoughts, both sour and sweet, envelop him, his unwanted attire for the evening.

The glorious smell of beef stew assailed him the instant he opened the door. Smiling sardonically, he acknowledged to himself that at least he would eat well tonight.

He went into the kitchen to give the pot a stir and to collect a bottle of beer. Here the odor became a living thing, sensuously full-bodied, overflowing with rich flavor, demanding that he sample it immediately. He teased a cube of round steak and a bit of carrot and potato into the narrow bowl of the wooden spoon and raised it to his lips. Eyes closed, he let his tongue surround and explore, while his taste buds hummed.

"Does that mean it's ready?"

Kimble jumped like a guilty child. Arms folded across his chest, shoulder pressed against the door jamb, Samuel Gerard stood in the kitchen doorway, looking for all the world as though he had been there for some time. He was dressed in a sapphire blue shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and tight-fitting blue jeans.

Swallowing hard around the unchewed sample, Kimble exclaimed, "How—?" The stupidity of the question struck home almost immediately—Gerard could undoubtedly get into any place he pleased. He changed it to, "How long have you been waiting?"

Giving his arm a half-twist to expose the face of his watch, Gerard replied, "Going on an hour. Were you called in?"

Dumb, Kimble bobbed his head in agreement.

"Patient make it?"

"Little girl. Should be okay."

"Good." Gerard stood up, closed the short distance separating them. He peered down into the crockpot. "So can we eat? I'm starved."

"Sure," Kimble said, finding it difficult to speak around the heavy, too rapid thud of his heart. "Help yourself to a beer. I've got a couple of things to do yet."

A thick finger pointed toward a paper towel-shrouded baking tin. "I already did the cornbread." Gerard gave it a tap for emphasis. "You left the box out on the counter. You're right; the instructions are easy."

His expression paralyzed, Kimble said, "The salad?"

Gerard tipped his head toward the refrigerator. "Done."

The rubber door seals parted with a smacking sound. Sure enough, there was a large bowl, covered with drum-tight cellophane, filled with perfectly chunked lettuce, sprinkled with green and black olives, diced celery, tiny rings of green onion, and rosettes of radish.

"Dessert?"

A corner of Gerard's mouth quirked upward. "We'll talk about dessert after dinner." Disconcertingly, the humor in his voice did not reach his eyes.

"Uh—Okay." Kimble's role reduced to that of serving person, he opened the overhead cupboard to take down plates.

"I've set the table," Gerard informed him.

"Ah—Something to drink. Have you had a beer yet?"

"Helped myself to a Pepsi instead."

"Great." He gave Gerard a searching look. "Well—Guess we're ready then. You hungry?" Not often did he find himself at such a disadvantage.

"I'm starved," Gerard said firmly. "Didn't I mention that?"

"Uh— Okay. You bring the cornbread and the salad. I'll get the stew."

The small alcove round the corner, with its oak table and two oak chairs fitted with burgundy fabric seat pads was perfect for intimate eating. Gerard had taken it a step further. Matching burgundy placemats ransacked from the bottommost credenza drawer, plates, dinnerware, and glassware were arranged with Miss Manners exactness. Serving tiles awaited the crockpot, the salad bowl, and the tin of cornbread. Nothing had been forgotten. Arrayed on a condiments tray were the salt, pepper, and sugar in their crystal housings; a small stainless steel bowl with bottles of salad dressing chilled in ice; and, mundanely, the tub of whipped butter straight out of the refrigerator.

Kimble let out a laugh. "Thank you, Sam."

Gerard regarded him impassively.

"For doing all of this, I mean. You saved me a whole lot of time. But mainly, thanks for waiting."

"You got home just in time, Richard," Gerard chided. "Was about ready to dig into that stew all by myself."

Hunger helped overcome Kimble's initial awkwardness. With Gerard around, emotions came fast and varied, a constant challenge to Kimble's ability to keep up. For the moment, however, he decided simply to sit back and enjoy—and wait to see what the evening would bring.

Later, while the dishes soaked in the kitchen sink, they took coffee into the living room. During their meal, Gerard had inquired after Kimble's day at the hospital, expertly inducing him to speech. It was rare that Kimble found someone outside the medical field who could tolerate the sort of conversation in which doctors excel, much less display intelligent interest. They continued in the living room between sips of freshly ground coffee. Two tours in Vietnam had introduced Gerard to the basics of wound trauma; succeeding years in criminology had kept his education current.

"You said Morgan requested you?"

"Yes."

"Isn't he the guy who—?"

"Yeah. Couldn't stand me at first sight."

"Must be your bedside manner," Gerard remarked solemnly. He swirled the coffee in his mug. "Have you ever slept with a man, Richard?"

Kimble might have admired the not so subtle but very effective technique had he not been the subject of Gerard's abrupt interrogation. "No."

"No," Gerard repeated, his voice lacking all inflection.

"There's a first time for everything," Kimble argued amiably.

Gerard sighed. Lines intersected at every corner of his face. "You're straight."

"Most of the gay people I know believe _everyone_ is at least _bi_."

"So you've decided to join our ranks. Why me?"

"I don't know."

"You've never thought about doing this with anybody else?"

"No." With each candid response, Kimble felt the other man distance himself a little further. Refusing to give up, he said, "Maybe the more important question is, are you interested in _me_?"

"Oh, much more than interested," Gerard answered; yet, in that same flat tone of voice, he might have been discussing the day's weather. "But I can live with that so long as you stop trying to be something you're not."

"I told you what I wanted when I invited you over."

"I came for the dinner."

"But you just said—"

"For the dinner, Richard." A resigned smile eased the rigid set of Gerard's features. "Nothing more." Kimble started to speak; Gerard silenced him with an upheld finger. "Have you asked yourself why, all of a sudden, you want to go to bed with me?"

"Not all of a sudden." Kimble's voice hardened. "I've been thinking about it for weeks."

"Weeks, huh? Well that just goes to prove that gratitude—and I know you're grateful to me, Richard—can make a person do funny things."

"Yes, I am grateful." A small knot of anger, all clutched tentacles and warts, began to twitch inside Kimble's chest. "But gratitude has nothing to do with this."

"Nothing?"

"Sam—"

"Something else," Gerard went on implacably. "Victim psychology. Stockholm Syndrome. Seeking comfort from your persecutor."

"Psych 101; I've heard of it. And it doesn't apply."

"Be honest, Richard. I hunted you. I shot at you. I nearly killed you."

"You be honest, Sam," Kimble snapped back. "You never even came close to killing me."

Heavy brows rose with disbelief. "You can say that after what happened at the county lockup?"

" _Especially_ after that."

A hint of pity gleamed in Gerard's eyes—pity and something Kimble, blinded by anger, could not identify. "Let's hear it."

"It goes all the way back to when we met, in the tunnel over Barkley Dam."

"Barkley Dam," Gerard repeated, a thumb skimming his brow; clearly, he failed to make the connection.

"You told me to drop your gun, remember?" That moment was still excruciatingly fresh in Kimble's mind, if not in Gerard's. "I turned around—I wasn't thinking—and I still had the gun in my hand. You could've shot me _then_ , Sam. But you didn't. Later, at the lockup, you waited until there was bulletproof glass between us before you fired. You were trying to scare me, not hurt me. And remember, I've seen you shoot. My foot was caught in the door. It would've been awfully easy for you to hit it. I wasn't even fifty feet away."

"Maybe," Gerard said reasonably, and to Kimble's mind, somewhat condescendingly. "Maybe, I just forgot the glass was bulletproof."

"And maybe," Kimble mocked, "you didn't see my foot, either."

Something that might have been concession twitched across Gerard's face. His eyes were opaque, indecipherable. "I admit, Richard, I never _wanted_ to kill you. But you're misreading—"

"Don't lie to me, Sam." Kimble threw out a hand, unthinkingly mimicking Gerard's gesture of only a few moments ago. The affronted creature inside him had died and shriveled up, leaving an aching hollow in its place. Affecting a philosophical shrug, Kimble murmured, "So you're interested, but not _that_ interested. I understand. Just don't lie to me, Sam, okay? If you'd really tried to kill me, I wouldn't be sitting here making an idiot of myself now."

He stood, gathering empty cups. "Think I'll have another coffee. You?" He did not wait for an answer, and Gerard did not call him back. In the kitchen, he emptied the pot of silty dregs with short, sharp movements. After rinsing it clean, he filled the reservoir with fresh cold water. Then he focused his entire being on the task of pulverizing a handful of coffee beans. He counted to thirty and flipped off the switch; the shriek of the grinder died with stunning suddenness.

"Have you been tested?"

The voice came from close behind him. In the midst of slapping the side of the mill to loosen fine grounds, Kimble hesitated for the length of a quickened heartbeat. "Yes," he said sharply. "I was pretty active before I married Helen."

"And during your marriage? Since?"

"I never cheated, if that's what you're asking. And of course I've been tested since—there's considerable exposure in my line of work." The coffee filters were in a box propped against the tiled-counter backsplash. As Kimble moved toward it a large, blue-cuffed hand anticipated him. Gerard fished out an unbleached filter and placed it inside the basket. "Thank you," Kimble murmured. For an instant, he had thought Gerard was going to touch him. "There's been no one since Helen. The choices in prison were not to my liking, though I had some rather forceful offers."

"What about Dr. Wahlund?"

"She's my friend, Sam." Sliding the brewer basket home, Kimble turned the coffee machine on. After a second's delay, steaming water began to trickle into the pot. "And she's gay." He leaned back against the counter, heels of his palms braced on the tiled surface.

Gerard stood less than a foot away, completely expressionless. "She wears a wedding band."

"She's divorced. And it keeps people from making assumptions." Gerard registered this with a flick of an eyebrow. Kimble said, "It's your turn. I'm clean. How do you test?"

"I don't."

"You don't. Why not?"

"It's not necessary."

"You've _never_ engaged in high-risk sexual activity?"

"Spoken like a doctor," Gerard remarked, amusement shimmering mirage-like across the surface of his eyes. "I have never engaged in high-risk sexual activity."

"Not even with Stuart Browning?" Kimble asked, not so much with surprise as incredulity.

"Especially not with Stu. He was HIV-positive when I met him." Ignoring Kimble's change of expression, Gerard said, "Told you I almost married? It's true. That was _just_ twelve years ago, Richard. But I was never a liar, and almost marrying Ruthie made me admit the truth. Not only that, but I've been in law enforcement my whole adult life, and I'm ambitious. Queers are not promoted."

"So you pretend that you're not?"

"I don't pretend, Richard," Gerard corrected him. "With the exception of Stu, I've done without."

It was a great deal to absorb all at once. Kimble had foolishly imagined that he had gained an understanding of the deputy marshal. Gerard's disclosure concerning his relationship with an HIV-positive man, followed by a statement of recent celibacy was forcing him to revise his opinion—the man was a conundrum—and what bearing this new information might have on any relationship they might embark upon. "Then what about this 'dirty weekend' you were talking about?"

"I lied."

_"Why?"_

"Because I was tired. And I was jealous."

"Sam—" Exasperation burned inside Kimble's throat. "Do you want to go to bed with me?"

"Yes."

Kimble let out a great whoosh of air, "Well, thank God for that."

"I said I want to, Richard. I did _not_ say that I will."

The warty, tentacled thing came back to life. "Damn it, Sam—!"

"Look at me," Gerard commanded. He flicked a hand toward his own face. "You were married to a beautiful woman. Imagine waking up to this instead."

Kimble nodded. "I already have. Yes, Helen was beautiful—but that wasn't why I married her, and that wasn't why I loved her."

"And it wasn't a factor."

"It was an extra." A mirthless laugh escaped him. "Sam, I'm not asking you to marry me." He caught his bottom lip between his teeth. "Yet." Gerard gave him a speaking look. Kimble went on before he could interrupt, "You think I don't find you attractive. You're wrong. You think I'm damaged psychologically because you hunted me down. Wrong again. You think I want to go to bed with you as payback for everything you've done for me. Wrong cubed. What can I say that will convince—?"

"Nothing," Gerard said with finality. "Nothing you can say will ever convince me."

"I—I don't believe that."

"Believe it."

"No." The moment was slipping away; in the next instant Gerard would walk out, leaving Kimble unutterably alone. Kimble whispered, "Sam, please—"

Gerard's eyes flared. "You idiot," he hissed. He abruptly stepped forward. Uncomprehending the other man's sudden anger, Kimble fell back. But there was nowhere to go, the counter hard against his spine. "Idiot!" Gerard repeated.

Disjointed thoughts exploded in Kimble's mind like crackling embers, but none made any sense. Nothing mattered, except for the immediacy of Samuel Gerard standing less than an inch away, his breathing ragged, the heat of his body raising a prickle of sweat on Kimble's own skin. The other man's fury confused him, even frightened him a little. He didn't know what to do, what to say—

_"Nothing you can say will ever convince me."_

And suddenly Kimble understood. He raised one slightly trembling hand and brushed his knuckles against the corner of Gerard's mouth. Gerard swallowed but made no move to respond. Never had his gaze been so impenetrable, nor his features so unforthcoming. Kimble traced the line of Gerard's jaw, feeling the strain of tensed muscles, the pressure of clenched teeth. His fingers spread wider, cradling the other man's face in his palm. His thumb glided across Gerard's mouth, his own lips parting in unthinking empathy. Gerard let out a tiny gasp. Kimble met his eyes. "Is it okay?" he asked uncertainly. "I mean, can I kiss—?"

"Jesus, Richard!" Gerard snarled. He grasped Kimble's head between his hands and took his mouth in a hard kiss. Shocked, Kimble at first made no effort to participate. His brain seized up—except for the part that was trained to stand aside and observe: Gerard's lips on his, demanding, hungry. The vague mingled tastes of coffee, stew and cornbread—and he assumed the quintessential taste of Gerard himself. The soft sound Gerard made as the kiss changed, his lips coaxing now, encouraging Kimble's response. The leg jammed between his thighs, the bulk straining at his hip.

Kimble didn't even notice when the observer disappeared. All his senses belonged now to this man. He leaned closer, letting his lips part wider, moaning softly as Gerard deepened the kiss. He slid his hands around his back, delighting in the hard wiriness of him, then let them glide downward to denim-clad buttocks. Oh, he wanted this! He wanted—

Gerard suddenly let him go, resting his forehead against Kimble's temple, his breath hot against Kimble's ear. "Richard," he said thickly, "I'm sorry. I wanted you to make the first move. I wanted to be sure—"

Lowering his head to nuzzle Gerard's throat, Kimble mused, "You're not? Even now?"

"Oh, God—! I just—I really _don't_ understand."

"I'll—explain—it—some—" Impossible to think, impossible to string words into coherent sentences. "Sam, can we—?"

Later, Kimble would wonder what he had meant to ask. Perhaps a request for a temporary halt so they could resume more comfortably in the bedroom. But by then two sets of hands had intensified their prowling, deftly liberating touch-starved bodies from the restraints of clothing, leaving no surface unbared, unkissed, or unexplored. They made it to the carpet in the living room, and it was there that Kimble's dreams became reality.

Afterward, their bodies pressed close together, Kimble drifted on a sea of contented lethargy. One blunt-fingered hand lazily combed through the hair on his chest, while searching lips grazed at the tender skin behind his ear.

"I think I love you, Sam," he murmured warningly.

"You already said that," Gerard said. He lowered his head to nibble at Kimble's shoulder.

A smile stretched the corners of Kimble's mouth. "So did you. You know, for someone who does without, you seem to do pretty well _with_."

"Hm. And for someone who's never had sex with a man, you seem to have a pretty good idea of what works."

"Well, I am one," Kimble said logically. "A man. Guess that counts for something."

"I doubt that most men would see it that way, Richard."

"Maybe not." It was time, he reflected, to explain himself, to justify their present situation. "It's good to know that reality can be better than dreams," he remarked softly.

"This? You dreamed about this?"

"Yeah. You. I dreamed about you." In a hushed, wry monotone, Kimble described the subconscious yearnings that had led him to this moment. Listening silently, Gerard might have been asleep but for his unceasing caresses. His hands, big and rough, quartered the terrain that was Kimble's body, gentling, stirring, and before long arousing him anew.

"I wondered," Gerard said, when Kimble had finished. "When I told you about Stu, I didn't expect you to be quite so nonchalant."

"Then why did you tell me?"

"Because you're my friend."

Grinning, Kimble said, a little pedantically, "Yes, Sam. First and foremost, I am your friend."

He pressed closer and kissed Gerard with abandon. "What say we try the bedroom this time?" Kimble drew himself onto his haunches, took up Gerard's hands, and raised both of them to their feet.

Staying him only long enough to steal another kiss, Kimble led the way, totally unselfconscious of his jutting nudity, his mind leaping ahead to what awaited them. Together they sank onto the bed, coming to lie groin to groin; the unhurried friction of their perfectly matched undulations slowly but unerringly augmented the sensations igniting between them.

"Did I do this in your dreams?" Gerard asked, demonstrating with lips, teeth, and tongue.

Catching his breath, Kimble shook his head. "No."

"Or this?"

"Sam, Jesus!"

Straddling him, Gerard extended a hand to the container of lotion that Kimble kept on the nightstand; a surgeon scrubbed the skin off before every operation, and dryness was a constant complaint. Sliding back down the length of his body with squeeze bottle in his grip, taking his time to prolong the sensations, Gerard whispered harshly into his ear, a question, a request, and a proposition, all in one.

Kimble's lashes flickered. Dry-mouthed, he gave a quick nod. _That_ was something his dream-self had experienced both in pain and in pleasure—but mostly pleasure.

"Where—?" Gerard began.

"Don't need 'em. In the drawer, though, if you want them."

The drawer remained closed. Gerard guided him onto his stomach, hands stroking broadly and reassuringly down Kimble's back. He prepared him with fingers that shook before lying alongside him, his fevered touch branding Kimble's flesh at every point of contact. Kimble quivered a little with anticipation and a dash of fear. His every sense was attuned to Gerard's movements, the silken brush of his breath, the searing warmth of his body. The big hands urged him onto his side. As Gerard pushed up against him, nudging Kimble's upper leg forward, Kimble knew an instant of panic.

"Sam—"

"Shh." Slickness enveloped his wilting hardness, coaxing it to grow and swell once more. As a vascular surgeon, Kimble knew exactly the process involved, had operated on a very few hapless patients whose bodies had turned on them at this crucial moment, leaving them either agonizingly incapable or painfully and permanently tumescent. Not that he was concerned that he might find himself in a similarly unhappy situation. On the contrary, Gerard's methodical attentions, luxuriously all encompassing, were carrying him with indulgent patience back to the brink of urgency. Seconds away from completion, he felt the pressure of Gerard pushing into him, the heat of the other man at once possessing and surrounding him.

He hissed, impalement rousing untried nerve endings to startled complaint. But Gerard held him in place. A short thrust took him deeper. Kimble bit back a protest, clinging to the arm that banded his chest.

"Ah, Richard." Gerard's voice was as rich and smooth as warmed honey. Experimentally, he withdrew nearly to the tip, a swordsman assessing the fit of blade to scabbard; then sheathed himself once more.

"Hmmm," he breathed. Then: "Sorry. Didn't mean to get ahead of you." He took up where he had left off, dexterously commanding Kimble's pleasure with his hands. "Richard, Richard—" Kimble's name, uttered in a low and hoarse undertone, became a lover's paean. Gerard played tongue and lips across the nape of Kimble's neck, nipping him with sharp teeth as he began to work his hips again, gliding in and out with controlled insistence. At that instant Kimble's discomfort shattered amidst a burst of wondrous, spiking sensation. It melded with the liquid pleasure he was already experiencing; under this combined assault, his belly tensed with growing inevitability. Gerard ruled him utterly, inside and out; Kimble could do nothing, wished to do nothing but accede to the other man's lead. When Gerard began to quicken his rhythm, shortening his strokes, Kimble stretched a hand back below Gerard's arm to clasp the bony promontory of his hip, pulling him in, deeper, harder, no longer passive, no longer hurting, no longer in any way removed.

The twin sensations fused into a single, star-hot shockwave, rocking him with its power. He cried out, and in the same instant, Gerard stilled, his grasp affording Kimble no room to breathe as the same shockwave rolled over him. Gerard's shuddered breaths rushed past Kimble's ear, and as the seconds passed and became moments, the tension began to drain out of him. At last, Gerard lay limp, his arm a heavy, but wholly welcome weight encircling Kimble's chest.

"Richard." Pulling him impossibly nearer, Gerard filled his lungs with air. "I shouldn't have— But I— Are you all right?"

"Yeah. That— Yeah." Ruefully, he admitted, "I forgot about your arm. Sorry."

"Don't be; I forgot about it, too." Gerard's lips pressed moist and warm against the back of Kimble's jaw. He ran a finger over his hip. "Your turn next time."

"You bet it is."

Gerard laughed. The sound of it tickled Kimble's ear; he curved his cheek against his lover's mouth, instigating another unhurried kiss.

They remained curled up together for a long time, only eventually moving apart, slowly rearranging themselves until, hands loosely united and legs tangled together, they lay facing each other, sharing the same pillow. As sleep began to drift over him, Kimble marveled that he should have come to this. Happiness was a rare treasure he had thought buried in a secret place and lost to him forever; at the moment, he felt wealthy beyond imagining.

* * * * *

Groggy with the exertions of a long, sleepless night and warmly suffused with a rich brew of happiness, satisfaction, and shameless contentment, Kimble was slow to wake despite the muffled rumble of conversation teasing the outer islands of his hearing. He bestirred himself through force of will rather than out of curiosity; it would be altogether too easy to fall asleep again, leaving the speakers to their own company. It was, however, his apartment, and it was likely expected that he put in an appearance.

He rinsed off his face, recoiling from the fatuous grin that greeted him in the mirror. It took a moment to arrange his features into something more suitable, though he could not completely eradicate the telltale shine from his eyes and the quirk from his mouth. Teeth brushed, hair combed, and comfortably outfitted for the day—or what was left of the day, as the morning hour had already passed ten—he made his way to the corridor. By then the voices had announced their owners if not the content of their debate; he could only wonder why Lydia Akbari should be here, engaged in what sounded like, as he drew nearer, a rather vehement conversation with Samuel Gerard.

The suddenly commanding scents of eggs, ham, and toast wafted through the open kitchen door. Guided by his nose, Kimble took in the small mixing bowl, a pale yellow film lining its inside, and the cooking pan showing evidence of recent use but now all too empty. Finding nothing to scavenge but a few crumbs, he walked through to the dining alcove, the topic of the moment becoming clearer to him with each approaching step. He was noticed entering the doorway, and both voices died mid-sentence.

Seated at the far side of the table, Gerard regarded him a split-second too long. In his dark gaze Kimble saw welcome as well as irritation. He hoped that the latter was not directed at him.

"Good morning," said Kimble.

"Your resident is pregnant," Gerard said.

Sullen, Akbari confirmed this with a thinning of her lips and a slight nod. Before her was a plate bearing the remains of eggs scrambled together with tiny cubes of ham. Kimble's stomach whined plangently at the sight.

"Newman?" he asked, taking care to keep the disappointment out of his voice. It would do no good to ask Akbari how she had come to this pass; it just happened.

"Newman," Gerard replied for her.

Akbari grimaced. She stabbed the tines of her fork into a small clump of ham. "He doesn't know. I tried to call you, but I didn't want to leave a message on your answering machine. I'll be out tomorrow." Her eyes met his. "Taking care of it."

"She's not to going to tell him," Gerard said, in that same, too-neutral voice.

"What good would it do?" Akbari rounded on him. "I told you, nothing he's going to say will make me change my mind."

"What did you test with?" Kimble asked. "Not one of those over-the-counter kits, I hope?"

"Serum HCG. No mistake."

Kimble grimaced inwardly. "How far past ovulation?"

"Seventeen days."

"And you ran the test—?"

"Yesterday."

"Sounds like you've been putting it off."

All expression melted from her face. "I've been a _little_ busy."

"You should tell him," Gerard said.

 _"Why?"_ Akbari argued. "It would only upset him. Is that what you want—to upset him?"

"It's his child."

Her nostrils flared; her entire body seemed to bristle. "Born, it's _our_ child. Here," she patted her abdomen, "it's only mine."

"You're not that insensitive, doctor." Gerard fixed her with a stare as cold and hard as black ice. "Pretend it's the other way around. Wouldn't you want to know?"

She gritted her teeth. "It's different these days."

"Oh, yes, it's different," he agreed. "Taking responsibility for your own actions has become downright uncommon."

"Responsibility! Do you think I'm being irresponsible by _not_ having a child until I can take care of it?"

"Responsibility," said Gerard tersely, "is dealing with your mistakes—not pretending they never happened."

A sharp sound rang throughout the dining alcove; Akbari had slapped her hand on the table. "You _want_ Newman shackled with a kid?" she demanded, her voice rising. "He can barely support himself on what you pay him now!"

" _I_ don't pay him. And anyway, who says he'd _want_ you to have it?"

She threw up her hands. Bits of ham and egg landed on the table. "But what if he did? Why put him through that?" She scooped the errant pieces into her hand.

"You mean, why put _you_ through that."

Akbari lowered her head and stared down at the table. With inordinate care, she piled the gathered remains in the middle of her plate. " _I_ have to go through this whether Noah knows or not."

"That isn't what he means," Kimble stepped in.

Her shoulders straightened; she swallowed hard. "You agree with him."

"If it were me, Lydia, I'd want to be told."

Anger sparked in her eyes. "Maybe I just ought to have the damn thing and let the two of you raise it!"

Arms folded loosely across his chest, Kimble slouched back against the door frame. Gerard turned his head toward him, his expression equally unreadable. Kimble shrugged, wordlessly questioning.

Gerard answered, "Always wanted a daughter."

Kimble considered this. "One of each for me."

A hand at her mouth, Akbari failed to contain a slightly strangled noise. She pushed back her chair and rose. "Doctor, I'll be in on Tuesday. Deputy, thank you for the breakfast." Twisting sideways, she slipped past Kimble, striding resolutely toward the main entry.

Sighing, Kimble followed. "May I ask who you're going to, Doctor?"

"Beakerson. She's agreed to perform an endometrial aspiration rather than make me wait."

"Then you've had an ultrasound?" He reached past her as she made for the door handle.

"Yes."

"Well—She's good. Reliable." Kimble turned the latch and drew open the door. "Lydia, are you okay for money?"

All at once, Akbari's eyes became overly bright. She gave a shaky nod. Kimble placed a hand on her shoulder. "If you need _anything_ —" He tightened his fingers. "Anything at all, let me know. Promise?"

A quick jerk of the head was all the answer he got. She struggled for control. "I'm—sorry," she whispered haltingly, "for what I said. About giving you and Gerard my—"

"Don't be," Kimble interrupted her. "You were absolutely right."

Akbari did not seem to know how to handle this admission. Looking miserable, she muttered, "Anyway, thanks for the offer."

"I know how tight it can be when you're a resident," Kimble said understandingly. He let her go. "I'll see you Tuesday—or Wednesday. Don't push it."

"Tuesday."

"Whenever."

He watched until she had disappeared into the elevator, then closed the door and briefly rested against it. He imagined how much better his present state of mind would be had he awakened only now.

The kitchen was newly redolent with the smell of heating butter. Gerard stood at the counter, beating eggs into the same mixing bowl, which bore signs of recent rinsing. A small slab of ham lay on the cutting board at his side. He stopped his culinary endeavors at Kimble's arrival, his expression guarded.

"How long have you been up?" Kimble asked.

"A while. She got your eggs."

"Hm. I guessed. Pretty spirited conversation." He pinched off a piece of ham and tossed it into his mouth. "For you, I mean."

The fork in Gerard's fingers began to whip the eggs faster. "You _mean_ , I overstepped my bounds." He acknowledged this with a twitch of the shoulder. "It's not pleasant seeing yourself in someone else," he explained grimly.

Sidling nearer, Kimble set his hands lightly on Gerard's nearly non-existent hips, using his chin to carefully massage the ball of the recently injured shoulder through the clean, paisley cotton shirt he recognized as his own. "You're pregnant and you don't want to tell me?"

With a clatter, Gerard shoved the bowl to one side and pitched the fork into the sink. He dragged the cutting board toward him, taking up the short-bladed paring knife. The slab of ham was expertly transformed into quarter-inch cubes. "Trying to protect yourself by pretending—or even really believing—that you're doing it for someone else."

"You'll have to translate that into English, Sam."

Gerard rolled his shoulder as though it pained him. Kimble kissed it gently. At that, Gerard set the knife on the table and wheeled around. He rested the heels of his hands against Kimble's upper arms. Without preamble, he brought their mouths together. Passion kindled, as did fiery expectation; Kimble stepped nearer. "Later," Gerard checked him. "You need to eat first."

A crooked grin lay claim to Kimble's mouth. "It doesn't have to be _eggs_ , does it?"

Gerard's eyes darkened. He hesitated. "Go sit down," he ordered; Kimble suspected they were not the words he would have chosen to say. "This will be ready in a couple of minutes. And top up my cup, will you?"

Nodding, Kimble bent nearer and rubbed his nose against Gerard's. "When you're ready."

Waiting in the dining alcove, sipping coffee, and glancing through the morning's paper, Kimble tried to ignore the fear prickling at his intestines. Gerard was upset, but about what Kimble was afraid to guess—though Akbari, he suspected, was the least of it. Upon the thought, Gerard appeared, a plate heaped high with eggs and ham and toast held in one hand, cutlery in the other.

Kimble allowed himself to be served, reassured when Gerard took the seat opposite, the requested mug of coffee now certainly undrinkably cool. He piled a forkful of fluffy yellow eggs dotted with minced ham onto the corner of a triangle of toast. His stomach rumbled with anticipation. He bit down. "Hm," he murmured. "This's great."

"All the things we're not supposed to eat," Gerard said. He glowered into his mug.

"We'll work it off." Leveling his gaze at the deputy marshal, Kimble ventured, "Won't we?"

Gerard conceded a small laugh. "Yes, Richard, we will."

"So tell me about Akbari. What set you off?"

"It wasn't Akbari," he said. "It was me."

Kimble pretended to concentrate on his food. That quiet voice, filled with self-reproach, terrified him.

"I got up this morning," Gerard began, "and decided I had to save you from me—from this." He made a vague, all-inclusive gesture. "I lined up a whole lot of reasons for why we should end it now. And they were good ones, all of them. Then your resident showed up. I let her in so she wouldn't wake you by ringing that damn bell. Asked her if she wanted to leave a message. But she wanted to talk to you—and she made the mistake of talking to me instead."

Downing another mouthful of perfectly salted-and-peppered scrambled eggs, Kimble mumbled, "Can't say that I disagreed with anything you said."

"But not my place to lay into her like that. And, anyway, I was arguing with me; she just got in the way."

"Akbari's a big girl." Kimble studiously loaded up the last wedge, regarding it speculatively. "What did you decide?"

Resignation and a touch of pugnacity lurked in those dark eyes. "That I'm in for the long haul. And so are you, if I've got anything to say about it."

Kimble grunted. He shoveled the last bite between his teeth. "That was delicious, Sam," he complimented out of the side of his mouth.

"No arguments?" Gerard asked stiffly.

Lazily, Kimble took the other man's measure. "Not about the eggs; not about us. _I_ meant what I said last night. _All_ of it."

Chastened, Gerard growled, "So did I. It's just—" His back jaws worked, forming hollows under his cheeks.

"What?"

"It won't be easy for you." Gerard dragged out each word for emphasis. "People will find out. After a while, you may decide to change your mind."

"Akbari already knows."

"Yes, she does. I'm sorry, I shouldn't've—"

"I wasn't blaming you. Just pointing out that if Akbari knows, Newman will too."

"Oh, yeah, she'll tell him about us. Not about—"

"I'm just saying that I'm not worried, Sam. Not about me. But what happens to you when Newman finds out? Will your job be in danger?"

"Nah. I don't think so."

"Sam?"

"Supposedly federal employees are protected from sexual orientation bias. There's a wrongful termination case under consideration right now involving an FBI agent."

"And?"

"Well, it's not cut and dried. He was in a sensitive position; poor judgment may be a factor, too. Whatever happens, they'll either ditch the protection language altogether, or make it a little tighter, less subject to interpretation." Gerard rubbed his jaw. "Given the present administration, I'd wager it'll be the latter."

"But tolerance and support are two different things. You said 'they don't promote queers.'"

"No. But the next step up for me is administration anyway. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm happy where I am. What about you?"

"I'm going to tell the hospital. The head of Administration, your friend Morton Feinberg. Will he be shocked?"

The notion awakened a knowing smile. "No. Mortie doesn't shock easily."

"Good. If he's fair—and it's been my experience that he is—he'll take into consideration that there's no risk in a monogamous relationship."

Gerard shifted uneasily.

"So, have I convinced you? That I'm in for the long haul, too, no matter what?"

"Yeah. Richard—" Gerard's heavy brows formed an uneven ridge, and his eyes were obscured by their shadow. "About last night. When we— When I—"

"Staking your claim?"

"God!" He steepled his hands on the table. "Yeah, I guess."

"So did I," Kimble reminded him. "And if you remember, I did say something about marriage—"

"Richard, please."

Taking pity on his new bedmate, Kimble sought to allay his fears. "I am serious, you know. But I won't bring it up again—not for a while, anyway. But think about it. Get used to the idea. When you're ready, then we'll talk about it again." He shrugged. "I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy, Sam. I think you are, too. In fact, if _you_ were pregnant, you probably wouldn't tell me. You know, if you felt you had to get rid of it. So as not to hurt my feelings—"

"You're wrong," Gerard said fiercely. "You'd have a right to know if—" He broke off, belatedly registering the ludicrousness of their conversation and the "gotcha" in Kimble's eyes. A slow grin tugged at his mouth. Kimble raised his mug in silent salute. Gerard returned the gesture, face puckering as cold coffee wet his tongue. He reached across the table and took Kimble's free hand in his. He brought the surgeon's fingers to his lips. "Dessert'll be served in the bedroom after you're done here."

Kimble's thumb brushed Gerard's lower lip. "You're on the menu, Sam."

"I think," Gerard whispered, "I might like that."

* * * * *

_Spring_

Snow draped the ground, purest white against the backdrop of midnight, smoothing the landscape and eradicating imperfections. It imposed an ephemeral, and strikingly beautiful perfection of color, texture, and substance that would be gone by noon. Three headstones stood in a railing-enclosed plot. All wore stoles of sparkling white, their names and dates partially obscured by the wet, late-winter snowfall.

Crouching within the spiked enclosure, Kimble used his hand to scrub a name clean. _Helen Bancroft Kimble_. He gazed down at the ground, at the single blood-red rose lying before the headstone. His hazel eyes were calm and unshadowed. "I love you, Helen," he said quietly. Rising, he wiped his hands dry on his trousers. Turning, he went through the iron gate; he latched it with care behind him.

A short distance away, at the crest of a slight knoll, a car waited. Kimble warmed at sight of it. His breath ghosted in a feathery cloud with each exhalation, and his footsteps crunched as he mounted the slow rise. On the far side of the car, he could just make out the tall, athletically thin figure of the vehicle's driver. Smoke from a noisome cigar, thankfully seldom in evidence, rose blue-grey on the moist air.

The driver turned at his approach. "Okay?" Gerard asked. He dropped the half-smoked cigar to the ground and crushed it underfoot.

"Yeah. Thanks for coming with me."

A hint of white teeth—amusement or pique? Perhaps both. "Where else would I be at midnight on the eighteenth of March?" the deputy marshal asked rhetorically.

Kimble stopped beside the passenger door of the car, turning his gaze heavenward. Snow was starting to fall again, a few flakes flecking his forehead, cheeks, and chin, all melting on contact. "Promised myself if this day ever came, I would try to be here."

"Surprised you wanted me to come along."

"You didn't have to."

"No." Gerard shuddered exaggeratedly; Kimble knew that he hated the cold. Tiny patches of white stood out in his dark hair. Kimble would have liked to reach out and brush them away; the car stood between them. Gerard said, "Remember it next time I ask you to do something for _me_."

"Yeah, yeah," Kimble muttered without heat. He was weary—it had been a long day at the end of an even longer three weeks—but he felt restored as well as becalmed. "All you have to do is ask. Not that I need to tell you that."

"Yeah, yeah," Gerard mimicked him affectionately. "Get in, will you, Richard? Before I freeze my butt off?"

Kimble obeyed, the cold metal of the door handle burning his fingers as he worked the mechanism. "Two years," he said, almost to himself.

"A lot sooner than most." Folding his long legs into the driver's compartment, Gerard pulled the door closed, huddling for a moment inside his long coat. He inserted the key in the ignition, but before engaging the engine, he asked, "Will you come back when Doctor Nichols gets his injection? He's almost exhausted the appeals process." There was only curiosity in the query, no resentment, no doubt; Gerard begrudged Kimble's dead wife nothing.

"No. Sykes was the man who did the killing. Lentz is already dead. Chuck's been paralyzed all this time. Sam—"

The note of uncertainty in Kimble's voice must have registered at once; Gerard said sharply, "Yeah?"

"They did announce it—?"

"On the radio. Five or six minutes ago. Sykes is dead."

"Two years."

"Two years too long. Because there're too damn many lawyers, Richard."

From somewhere Kimble conjured a half-smile. "Some people say that about doctors."

"But seldom about cops—and _never_ about deputy marshals. Lucky to have one of your very own, aren't you? To look after you."

Kimble pretended to give serious consideration to the question. "When he's not off hunting bad guys," he agreed. "Of course, _you've_ got your very own doctor."

"Yeah," Gerard said affectionately, smiling to himself. "A heart doctor who sometimes specializes in proctology."

Kimble was surprised into a snort of laughter. In the darkness of the car, he took hold of a conveniently placed thigh. "Let's go, Sam."

"I can finally get some sleep?"

"Maybe not right away." Kimble's hand glided upward.

Heaving a sigh, Gerard groused, "You're going to wear me out, Richard. Why I ever agreed to marry you, I'll never know." He twisted the key in the ignition; the car's engine rumbled to life.

"I'm cheaper than an HMO," Kimble said abstractedly, sparing a last glance for his wife's grave as the car rolled down the narrow, gravel road. The single rose glistened with a fresh dusting of snow; the etched letters of her name were already unreadable. For all that, he liked to imagine that there was a new serenity about the family's plot—all debts paid; all wrongs made right.

Sensing Gerard's unspoken concern, Kimble turned to give him a querying glance. The deputy marshal drew a noncommittal face. "A few regrets?" he asked.

"No," Kimble replied, having answered that question in his own mind a long time ago. If it had been in his power to change things, to spare Helen the savagery of that terrible night, he would certainly have done so, even at the cost of his own life. Given the rules by which they were forced to play, however, he was simply grateful that each person was faced with only one death, however kind, however brutal. He moved his arm to the back of the seat, his hand coming to lie intimately on Gerard's shoulder. "None."

Warm, large fingers fleetingly covered his. "Good." There was a suggestion of relief in the beloved, husky voice. Gerard placed both hands on the steering wheel. With a slight turn of the head, he unselfconsciously brushed his cheek against the tips of Kimble's fingers.

That hint of stubble overlying cool skin characterized what once had been alien but now was gratifyingly familiar in Kimble's life. This man, blunt, hard-headed, infuriating, and devoted beyond all reason, had become his touchstone, his bedrock, and occasionally, when things went very wrong, his very purpose for living. Despite all that Kimble had undergone—the loss of the woman he loved, the loss of his freedom, the loss almost of his life—Kimble counted himself a very lucky man indeed. "Love you, too," he whispered.

Accepting this with an approving nod, Gerard nosed the car onto the main road and gently depressed the accelerator. The windshield wipers combated the increasingly heavy firefly-like swarm of snowflakes while the heater churned warming air into the passenger compartment. His fingers migrated to the back of Gerard's neck where they commenced a gentle massage, and Kimble marked the miles, ticking off the minutes until they would arrive _home_.

Like Helen, he was at peace.

END

_Thank you to Dee, for all her assistance and much appreciated support; Michele, Janet, and Sharon, for providing me with numerous pictures and articles regarding the actors and the film; and Jason, who supplied chapter and verse for most of the poetic, operatic, and literary references cited herein. His mother is not exactly an unsophisticated philistine, but she most definitely defers to his superior knowledge. Any technical inaccuracies are the sole responsibility of the author._

**Author's Note:**

> This story was begun in late 1993. It languished for a couple of rough years before finally being published as a standalone zine by Kathy Resch and debuted at MountainMedia Con in 1996, under the pseud Ellis Ward. Caren Parnes did the wonderful cover art, which can be seen at Fanlore, [here](https://fanlore.org/w/images/f/f2/Wintersend.jpg).
> 
> While a crazy amount of research went into this piece, certain medical realities and legal practicalities have been altered and/or dodged altogether for the sake of advancing the story. 
> 
> I've never seen all of the sequel to The Fugitive (movie), though I saw snippets. Needless to say, I would _not_ have killed off Noah Newman. Idiots.


End file.
